


all this could be yours if the price is right

by carrionkid



Series: sheltering skies and stable earth beneath [2]
Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Force (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: (holy shit i can't believe that's a tag that's already been used), (so much PINING), Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gay Mutant Road Trip, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Past-trauma, Pre-Relationship, Road Trips, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: “you’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. and you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. you’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.” -- richard siken, crush--aka what happens on the roadtrip to mexico. there's a lot of feelings and serious conversations and also some fight scenes. title is from 'game shows touch our lives' by the mountain goats. new chapters go up on sundays. i also have 2 playlists i've been listening to while writing this, one fromric's perspectiveand one fromstar's





	1. in which star gets sunburnt, eats some pancakes, and doesn't murder anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my wonderful wonderful tumblr friend who hasn't read a single comic but lets me rant at them drew me some fanart which you should [totally check out](https://vaguewhisperings.tumblr.com/post/173911768415/hi-i-did-this-and-now-im-the-only-one-in-my-class)

Getting his hands all over Shatterstar is probably one of the things he wants most in the world, something he’s slowly becoming more and more comfortable with the farther he gets away from anyone else he knows. But, life has a way to take unexpected turns and this is objectively the least sexy course of events in the entire world. Which is probably a good thing because if they’re both anxious, it shouldn’t be as weird.

 

“Stop squirming.”

 

Star lets out a low snarl, rolling his shoulders forward under Rictor’s touch. He eases up, not pushing as hard against Star’s back, but he can still feel how coiled-tight Star’s muscles are just beneath the skin.

 

“It’s not gonna hurt forever--”

 

“It does  _ not  _ hurt,” Star spits the sentence through gritted teeth.

 

“Whatever you say,” Rictor smiles to himself, working the aloe vera into the back of Star’s neck. 

 

His skin radiates heat and Rictor rests the palm of his hand against Star, hoping it’s somewhat cool. Star lolls his head forward, rumbling sound of protest caught in his throat.

 

“Your  _ fekting  _ earth sun is trying to kill me,” Each word is drawn out and deliberate, still monotone, “I’m dying.”

 

“I think you’ll die faster in a dimension with no sun,” Rictor shrugs out of habit, Star can’t actually see him, “I didn’t actually finish high school but I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.”

 

“I don’t  _ like  _ this,” Star wrinkles his nose, hands grasping at the air like he can catch the words he wants, “It is…  _ everywhere,  _ very thick and heavy.”

 

“The aloe’s to help it hurt less. I told you not to run off into the desert.”

 

Star’s voice is quiet, eyes still cast on the ground, “I wanted to find where it ended.”

 

Star doesn’t often explain the reasoning behind his actions, nor does he admit it when he’s wrong. 

 

Rictor drops his voice to match Star’s tone, “It doesn’t end. I mean, there’s probably a couple cities depending on which directions you go, but it doesn’t end.”

 

Star twists back to look at Rictor, eyes narrowed, “No walls.”

 

“No walls,” Rictor confirms, wiping the aloe from his hands with a towel.

 

Star purses his lips, thinking before saying, “It must be very big then.”

 

Rictor snorts, taking a seat next to Star on the motel bed, “That’s an understatement.”

 

Star draws his legs up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged as he twists a strand of hair around his fingers, “There were simulations. Always with an end. Not always easy to find. But I don’t want to get cornered.”

 

Knowing what to say when Star brings up his life  _ before  _ is impossibly hard; Rictor lets the conversation slip into silence, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as the steady hum of the air conditioner fills the room. By the time it shuts off, Rictor’s worked through a couple possible responses, but Star always finds a way to throw him for a loop. 

 

Like today, when he pulled off the road to stretch his legs and Star started running circles around him, smiling, or what counts for smiling when it comes to Star. It’s something in the eyes, that’s how you can really tell, and the way the corner of his lip quirks slightly up. Totally different than the weird teeth-bared murder grin he gets when he’s winning, and at least a thousand times better, and fuck, Rictor’s really in deep. 

 

“You looked happy out there,” He finally settles on saying, “Like, really happy.”

 

“I’m not happy now.”

 

“I know you’re not happy now,” Rictor laughs, “You’re ridiculously sunburnt.”

 

Star grits his teeth, nose wrinkled as he avoids looking at Rictor, “I lied. It hurts.”

 

“I know. I won’t tell anyone. When we’re done here, we can get you some sunscreen and go back out there. It’ll be fun.”

 

“Fun,” Star repeats, letting the word hang in the air.

 

“You gonna be ready for tomorrow?”

 

Star shoots him a harsh look. He never reacts well to people questioning his capabilities, but he seemed pretty freaked out by the sunburn at first. He wrinkles his nose again, pulling strands of hair from where it’s caught in the aloe vera all over his back.

 

“We should rest up,” Rictor says, knowing full well Star only sleeps in a few three hour shifts on a good night, “We’re gonna need to be level headed for tomorrow.”

 

Star lays flat on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow with the slightest sliver of a knife peering out; a constant warning. Rictor thinks Star probably trusts him more than anyone else, but Star still keeps weapons close. Not that Rictor can blame him, but he’s already on edge enough that the knife doesn’t help.

 

The room’s hot enough to not need a blanket and if the couch is too short for him, then it’s definitely too short for Star. So, he surrenders the bed, curling on his side to fit on the couch. Yeah, they’ve shared a bed before, but he can’t seem to find the courage to ask again, even if Star doesn’t seem to care about any kind of social pretense. 

 

Hell, they’ve even kissed, and maybe this would all be easier if he was drunk but he’s been sober the last couple of weeks because drinking alone isn’t fun and it’s even worse with Star just staring at him.  _ It’s not my fault _ , Rictor thinks, trying to make it feel true,  _ Star hasn’t brought it up either. _

 

He shifts again, shaking pins and needles out of one of his feet, and tries to still his mind. He can’t be tired tomorrow. He goes back over the plans, checking them and then double checking them again, running through contingencies, on and on until he can’t keep his eyes open.

* * *

“My skin is shedding, Julio, my skin is  _ shedding _ .”

 

Rictor stirs, almost smacking Star in the face as he moves to rub sleep from his eyes. Star’s kneeling next to him, head cocked to the side, rubbing at the peeling skin on his shoulder.

 

“That’s normal,” Rictor mumbles, “Happens when you get sunburnt.”

 

“I can’t get it all off.”

 

Rictor pushes his hair out of his eyes, sitting up, “Dude, don’t pick at it.”

 

“I want it  _ gone, _ ” Star rakes his nails across his back, “The rest of the burn is gone. This should be gone, too.”

 

Rictor lets his eyes shut, leaning back against the couch, it was 20 bucks for the night, only the second time they’ve stayed in a motel instead of sleeping in the car, already 45 bucks on gas to get them where they are now, a little bit here and there for groceries… But, he’s got both his stipend and Star’s from X-Force, and this is probably a special circumstance.

 

He sits up, resting his elbows against his knees, “Let’s get breakfast. Something at a real restaurant.”

 

Star nods, bouncing up to walk over to the bag containing his clothes.

 

Rictor tosses him a T-shirt, “Don’t wear another tank top, you’ll just get burnt again.”

 

Star pulls on the shirt, something so worn the design isn’t even identifiable, riding up just slightly in a way that makes Rictor’s face flush. He kicks on a pair of sandals, grabbing his backpack to take out to the truck as Star laces up his boots. Star sets his duffel bag at his feet, always keeping his few possessions in his line of sight. 

 

Close to the town, Rictor raises his voice enough to be heard over the wind from the open windows, “You can get anything you want,  _ anything _ , it’s your choice.”

 

Star makes a noise of confirmation.

 

“And I really mean it. You get weird about making choices, but it’s just breakfast.”

 

“I do  _ not  _ get ‘weird’ about making choices.”

 

“You wanted me to tell you what cereal you wanted, dude.”

 

Star doesn’t reply, just crosses his arms and glares out the window. He’s weird, but there are moments like this where he seems so human. 

 

Rictor parks the truck on the outskirts of the town, they’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, not that anyone really minds what they’ve been doing. The gesture is pointless because basically everyone ends up staring at Star. There’s not a place on earth where he wouldn’t get gawked at; tall, toned, bright red hair, and one of the most ostentatious facial tattoos in the entire universe.

 

Ducking into a booth in a mostly empty restaurant claiming to offer all day breakfast, Rictor drops his voice, “How the fuck do you just shrug off all those people staring at you?”

 

“Everyone has always watched me,” Star answers plainly. 

 

Coming from anyone else, it’d be conceited. Star still moves like someone who doesn’t understand privacy, every movement carefully choreographed.

 

The woman who comes to take their order has deep creases along her laugh-lines and her eyes soften when she looks over at Rictor. She pockets the pad of paper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

 

< _ Julio Richter, of all the people to run into after all these years...> _ She beams.

 

Fuck. This is the first time anyone’s recognized him and he’s sure they should still be far enough away from his family’s home that things like this shouldn’t be happening.

 

< _ Only about here> _ She holds up her hand for reference, about hip height, < _ Last time you were here. You and your father, in here every month. You’re taller, but you’ve still got the messy hair.> _

 

Rictor smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, < _ Hey, Ms. Ramos, it’s… been a while. I didn’t know you were still out here. _ >

 

Star keeps quiet, not entering the conversation but Rictor knows he understands.

 

Ms. Ramos shoots him a questioning look, < _ Headed back home? _ >

 

< _ Trying to work up the nerve.> _

 

It’s not a lie but it still feels hard to admit; she nods, satisfied with the response, before pulling the pad out again, < _ What will you boys have? Then you can catch me up, Julio.> _

* * *

It turns out that what ‘anything you want’ means, at least to Star, is a stack of chocolate chip pancakes covered in an inhuman amount of chocolate syrup and whipped cream.

 

“You are, without a doubt, the worst,” Rictor shakes his head as he watches Star attempt to cut the monstrosity with a butterknife. 

 

They’re sitting on the same side of the booth now, with Ms. Ramos taking the other side. The conversation starts out simple enough, Ms. Ramos giving updates on her children, and her grandchildren,  before reaching the point where she asks about his family.

 

< _ Haven’t been back for a while. I visited almost a year back, but it wasn’t for long. It’s never easy.> _

 

< _ That ‘family business’ never suited you. You deserved more.> _ She gives him a small, sad smile, before changing the subject, < _ Who’s this?> _

 

_ <I am Star.> _

 

_ <He’s a friend, who, uh, knows Spanish.> _ Rictor offers her another sheepish look, hoping it’s apology enough for not bringing that up earlier.

 

< _ Good, did Julio teach you?> _

 

Star shakes his head, < _ I learned myself, so I could understand, better communicate.> _

 

When they’re done eating, Ms. Ramos stands up, gesturing Rictor over for a hug. He leans down and she pulls him in tight, before putting both hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye.

 

< _ Go home, Julio. Your mother will always be waiting for you with open arms. You know I’m right, because I am a mother.> _

 

_ <I’ll get there. It’ll just take some time. In the meantime, don’t tell anyone we were here, please?> _

 

She nods, ruffling his hair before turning to Star, < _ Keep him out of trouble, for me.> _

 

_ <I swear to you that I will.> _

 

Rictor gently shoves him out of the restaurant, only letting Star turn back to wave to Ms. Ramos.

 

“You didn’t have to say that so dramatically,” Rictor laughs once they get back to the car.

 

“Promises are important.”

 

“Yeah, I guess,” Rictor responds, turning back onto the main dirt road that runs through the town. 

 

Once they reach the long stretch between here and the warehouse they’re supposed to hit tonight, it’s easy to let his mind wander. Seeing Ms. Ramos again was nice, but everyone around him seems to act like they know something about him that he doesn’t even know about himself. It doesn’t help that Star’s, well, Star; oblivious, sorely lacking in interpersonal skills, and quite possibly the only person on earth worse at identifying his feelings than Rictor.

 

He shakes the train of thought away, trying to get in the mindset of action, as he pulls off at a spot a couple miles out from the warehouse. They’re tucked behind a structure of rock and hopefully far enough back that no one will notice them. Stalling the engine, he leans over to pull the map from the glove box in preparation to go over the plan again.

 

“You left before because you did not want Cable to know what you were thinking, yes?” Star asks before Rictor has a chance to unfold the map.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Rictor answers, eyes narrowed as he looks over at Star.

 

“Even though you knew he would be telepathically linked with me?”

 

“I didn’t really think it through, and I didn’t think I’d ever come back,” Rictor sighs, pushing his hair back, “He still found out about  _ everything  _ and I’m only just starting to be okay with it.”

 

“But Ms. Ramos is a baseline human.”

 

Well fuck, maybe Star isn’t as bad at reading people as he thought; Rictor grits his teeth, “I didn’t want her to know,  _ either!  _ I don’t want anyone to know  _ anything! _ ”

 

Star seems satisfied with the answer, falling silent and leaving Rictor to stew in an anger that’s slowly been eating away at him for a lot longer than he’d like to admit. He sets the map down on the dashboard, crossing his arms and glaring out in the direction of the warehouse, just a speck on the horizon. 

 

Rictor grabs the map, turning back, first to surrender in this unspoken thing between them. He won’t be able to relax if they don’t go over things again and he still has to count on Star, even if he asks really blunt, invasive questions that nobody else would.

 

“Julio?”

 

He looks over to Star, “Yeah?”

 

Star closes the gap between them, kissing him quickly before pulling back, as calculated and wary of a strike as when he spars.

 

“I  _ can  _ make choices. I chose to kiss you.”

 

“Warn me next time,” Rictor says, heart caught in his throat.

 

“Understood,” Star says, twirling a strand of hair around his finger before adding, “I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t tell Cable. He saw, because I thought about it and because I missed you. I would not  _ betray  _ you.”

 

“I know,” Rictor pushes his hair back with a shaking hand, “I know. Doesn’t stop the idea of someone finding out from making me want to die. But there’s no fucking way I can try to deal with all of this right now and still pull off tonight, so let’s go over the plan again.”

 

Star nods in agreement, “Strategy is far easier than conversation.”

* * *

They wait until it’s just starting to get dark, still light enough out to see what they’re doing. Star gets out of the truck, stripping out of the t-shirt and pulling on a long-sleeve dri-fit shirt. He usually likes wearing white, but Rictor’s talked him into wearing black for the sake of subtlety. Rictor kicks off his sandals, trading his shorts for a pair of pants “borrowed” from X-Force as Star sheathes a blade in one of his boots. After getting his own pair of boots on, he grabs the case with Star’s swords from where they’re tucked behind the only two seats in the truck.

 

“What are the rules?” Rictor asks, holding the case hostage, though Star could take it if he really wanted to.

 

“Don’t kill anyone,” Star looks annoyed.

 

“And?”

 

“Don’t get killed,” he sighs, “But that’s easy. I have spent my entire life not getting killed.”

 

Rictor passes him the case, “Then keep up the good work.”

 

Rictor gets the truck as close to the warehouse as he feels comfortable, moving slowly with the headlights off in the hopes that no one will see them. Star might be fine sprinting three miles in the event of something going wrong, but he’s never been much of a runner. There’s a sickly yellow glow pouring from the windows of the warehouse and he can make out silhouettes of people moving around.

 

Keeping his voice to a whisper, he says, “I’ll knock out the power box, dumb fuckers have it outside, since you can, like, see in the dark or whatever.”

 

“And I will clear a path for you to enter.”

 

“ _ Quietly _ ,” Rictor interjects, “We need to surprise them.”

 

Star nods, exiting the truck before getting his swords from the case. Rictor jogs ahead, dodging panels of light from the warehouse, before looping around to the spot where the power box seemed to be on the blueprints. Sure enough, it’s there. It’s padlocked but that’s not gonna stop him. 

 

He presses a palm against the cool metal of the power box and focuses on letting the energy flow through him. Not too much, just enough to take out the power. It starts at his feet, coursing up and out, all through his body before focusing into his hand. The pooled light on the ground flickers out. He forgot just how fucking good it feels to be out of the city, everything’s solid under him. The endless catacombs of subways always make him feel like he’s falling.

 

Rictor stays there, not wanting to wander too far on the off chance that something goes wrong, until Star peers out of the small access door on the wall perpendicular to the power box. He nods, slipping in the door behind him. The floor plan suggests that this is a short hallway, there should be a staircase up as well as a door leading out to the main open space of the warehouse. In the grainy darkness, he can make out two figures slumped on the ground.

 

“Unconscious,” Star whispers, “Not dead.”

 

“Good job,” Rictor smirks to himself, not willing to risk a laugh, “They’re probably disoriented, but I think they’re gonna check the guns first. Make sure nothing’s getting stolen.”

 

Star nods in agreement, trailing after Rictor when he opens the door to the warehouse floor. He ducks down, tucked away in one of the more shadowy places.

 

“Let me know when there’s a lot of them here.”

 

It doesn’t take long for them to hear movement, people running, shouted orders, lids being lifted from crates. So they’re getting used to the darkness, that’s fine, Rictor’s got a plan. Star taps him on the arm twice just as he hears part of an order to spread out. Pressing both palms against the floor of the warehouse, he closes his eyes and lets everything melt away.

 

The sounds of the warehouse are chaos, but he feels much bigger than just this tiny body, this tiny room, vast and ancient and new all at once. The ground shakes. He feels it in his ribs, buzzing in his teeth, breathless and actually genuinely alive. 

 

There’s thirty seconds of perfect silence, an opening that Star takes. He darts off and Rictor can see the perfect gleam of one of his swords in moonlight, slashing across the ankles of two men standing close together. They crumple to the ground in unison and Rictor’s achilles tendon aches out of sympathy. Still not murder, he’ll give Star that. 

 

Another man goes down, split second flash of Star bringing the hilt of his sword against his head. Rictor’s still too high on excitement to join the fray, every part of him is shaking as he tries to keep it all contained within his body. But, he can hear people starting to cluster around a point that can only be Star, so he slips out from the shadow.

 

His footsteps are soft. He sneaks up behind one of the men, neck craned in an attempt to find the assailant in the dark. There’s enough residual energy rustling around in his hand that when Rictor touches the side of the man’s head, his eardrum ruptures. Rictor pulls back just in time for the man to scream, reflexively covering his ear. 

 

He manages to pull that move off one more time before the lights flicker back on. 

 

Fuck. The plans didn’t say  _ anything  _ about a backup generator. 

 

But the plans were already three years old and he really should’ve planned for a fucking backup generator. If everything turns out okay, there’ll be plenty of time to hate himself for this, so he snaps into action.

 

Pressing his hands together, the room crackles with energy. The ground shakes again, lights flickering overhead as dust falls from the ceiling. He’s the only one that manages to keep his balance, everyone else stumbles, even Star, but that’s a price he’s willing to pay. 

 

Just by scanning the room, there looks to be only four people left. One lunges at Star, only to be met by a sword hilt to the face. Rictor sees him crumple, blood pouring from his nose. 

 

Another tries to catch him off guard, but he’s in the perfect kind of mindset where he can feel every footstep in the room. It took some time but now he can pick out which ones are closest to him. He turns, catching the guy’s stomach with his elbow, then kneeing him in the face. 

 

Two left. 

 

One finally thinks to pull a gun, probably desperate if they’ve got ammo in this warehouse. One careless shot could potentially cause an explosion. He ducks back behind a crate, silently wishing Star luck because he doesn’t have a healing factor and he really, really, really doesn’t want to get shot.

 

There’s three more gunshots, followed by silence. Rictor finally looks out, only standing up when he sees Star pulling a sword from each man’s stomach. He wipes the blood from his swords off on the men’s stomachs; Rictor can see the wide-eyed look of fear carved into both their faces, meaning Star kept his promise.

 

Star’s nose wrinkles as he checks his swords, “I fekting hate guns.”

 

Rictor finally laughs, doubling over with his hands on his knees, “Join the club, dude.”

 

“I am going to check the rest of the warehouse. I would not like to be shot at again.”

 

“Good thinking, I’ll make sure nobody here gets back up.”

 

“They won’t,” Star adds, matter of factly, before heading back to the hallway and up the stairs.

 

Rictor leans back against one of the crates, watching the scene. Most of the men are in a bad way, lying on the ground clutching wounds, but Star didn’t actually kill any of them. Staying in their line of sight for so long is probably a bad idea, someone’s bound to recognize him, let the rest of the family know he’s coming, but it’s been a long night. Star comes back five minutes later, dropping a duffel bag at Rictor’s feet.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“Money,” Star says, “I like chocolate chip pancakes. I like showers. Now we can do that more often.”

 

“Normally I’d tell you not to steal, but this is  _ probably  _ already stolen, so I’ll let it slide,” Rictor slings the bag over his shoulder, “Let’s get outta here.”


	2. in which star's upset about being helped and rictor wallows. like. a lot

Once they’re driving, Star peels his shirt off. He makes a small noise, one that can only be described as sounding annoyed. Moonlight filters in through the windows, rolled down enough to let the wind rake through Rictor’s hair. He grins, intoxicated on the high of success.

 

His excitement’s interrupted when he catches something in his periphery, almost dark blue against Star’s skin in the low light. The sight of what looks like it could be blood makes Rictor turn. Somehow, he manages to avoid swerving the car as Star probes the wound above his hip with his fingers.

 

“Dude,” Rictor says, turning back to the road, “Stop picking at it!”

 

“I am  _ trying  _ to get the bullet out.”

 

“You got  _ shot?! _ ”

 

Star speaks through gritted teeth, fingers in the hole in his side, “Yes. It was very unpleasant.”

 

“Holy fuck, at least wait until we get somewhere I can sterilize.”

 

“Do you think I  _ care  _ about sterilization?” Star’s voice cracks for the first time Rictor can remember.

 

“Stop it. Don’t do this when I’m driving,” Rictor speaks softly, almost pleading, “Let me get us to a motel and then I’ll help you, okay?”

 

Star frowns, wiping his bloody fingers on his pants, “You will have to reopen the wound if it closes around the bullet.”

 

“It won’t take that long to find a motel, I promise.”

 

Rictor turns back to the wheel, gripping it tight enough that his knuckles are white. He’s more freaked out by this than Star, who only seems to be staring at the blood all over his stomach with a vague sense of discontent. He focuses on steadying his breathing, keeping an eye out for anywhere to spend the night. They can’t go back to the motel from before, they’re too memorable, especially since Star’s currently got a bullet hole in him. Being memorable means they’re easier to track and they can’t afford that.

 

He pulls off at the next motel he sees; it’s not as nice as the last one but the vacancy sign is on and Star looks like he’s shivering. He parks, leaving the truck in the one spot not covered by the flickering streetlight and gets out.

 

“Stay here, ‘kay? I’ll get a room, nobody needs to see you so messed up, ‘cos they’ll definitely remember it.”

 

Star makes a noise of confirmation; Rictor heads for the office. The man behind the counter looks half-asleep, holding a book he can’t really be reading.

 

< _ I need a room.> _

 

The man yawns, < _ Just for the night?> _

 

_ <We’ll see _ .>

 

The man looks at him, eyebrow raised, but doesn’t press it. Nobody asks too many questions at places like these, but just in case, he slides double the nightly rate across the counter. The man hands him a key and he darts back out to the parking lot.

 

He stops by the payphone. His hands are shaking worse than he thought and he drops the first coin he tries to use. It’s pointless to try to look for it in the gravel, so he grabs another and tries again. He manages to call the tipline he’s pretty much memorized by now and leaves a vague description of the warehouse before hanging up. Star gets out of the truck as soon as he spots Rictor, faltering only slightly. He leans back against the truck as Rictor grabs both their bags. Star trails after him like a shadow, waiting for Rictor to unlock the room.

 

After shutting the door behind them, Rictor says, “Go to the bathroom, I’ll be there in a sec.”

 

He locks the door, putting on the deadbolt, and pulls the blinds down before meeting Star in the small bathroom. It doesn’t look  _ clean,  _ per se, but it’s bound to be better than a hand-me-down truck. Star’s already sitting on the sink counter, ankles crossed as he continues to prod at the wound; each touch leaves behind tacky fingerprints of partially coagulated blood.

 

“I told you to stop that,” Rictor glares at him, unzipping the small first aid kit Domino slipped into their things when they left.

 

“I can do it  _ myself _ ,” Star growls, “I want this fekting bullet  _ out.” _

 

“Nope, I’m doing this,” Rictor says, pulling on a pair of medical gloves because he’s not sure what’ll happen when an infection, or god forbid, blood poisoning, meets a healing factor.

 

He pushes Star’s hands out of the way, fishing out a pair of tweezers and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

 

“Shit, I don’t know if I’m supposed to do this,” Rictor mumbles, unscrewing the bottle.

 

“Do it,” Star’s voice is quiet, aimlessly angry, “If it’s a mistake, I’ll heal.”

 

Rictor sighs, pouring it over the bullet hole. Star winces as the peroxide bubbles up, a small movement only obvious because of how close they are. Then, he wipes the area clean with a towel. The towel already couldn’t really be described as white, but now it’s a deep red. If Star wasn’t so stubborn, he’d probably be unconscious by now.

 

_ Gonna have to pay for that, too,  _ Rictor curses himself,  _ guy’s probably expecting drugs, or sex, not blood, definitely not this much blood _ . 

 

He’s never had steady hands, an irony that wasn’t lost on him after getting used to his mutation. He braces one arm against the counter, the other against Star’s knee to stop his hands from shaking so badly. Then, he digs the tweezers into the wound.

 

If it hurts, Star doesn’t let onto that fact. He watches Rictor’s every movement, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth until the skin is raw. Rictor feels something that might be a bullet and tries to pull it free, only to start the wound oozing blood again.

 

“When it’s that color,” Star mumbles, “It’s arterial blood. Warmer. Brighter. Saw it in a documentary.”

 

“Fuck, dude, fuck, that’s really bad.”

 

“You have it,” Star adds, “I can feel it. Blood vessels heal first. It’s okay.”

 

Rictor pulls the tweezers from the wound, sure enough, he’s got a huge chunk of a bullet, hopefully all of it. The new, strikingly red blood is already slowing, which has to be a good sign. 

 

“I can sew it shut,” Star offers, sounding slightly more lucid.

 

“No way, I’m doing this. I can handle this.”

 

“You should’ve let me take the bullet out earlier.”

 

“You can’t talk me into letting you sew yourself up,” Rictor groans.

 

He wipes Star’s skin clean again. Star’s hand hovers by the wound, slipping closer until he consciously pulls it back. Rictor nudges it out of the way, then grabs a curved needle from the first aid kit. After three failed attempts, hands shaking too badly to actually thread it, Star takes it from him without a word. He threads the needle before giving it back.

 

“Thanks,” Rictor whispers, awkwardly trying to force the needle through Star’s flesh.

 

It feels like it takes ages, but finally, Rictor decides that the wound is sufficiently closed. It isn’t bleeding anymore, which has to mean something. He peels off the gloves, abandoning them atop the probably unsalvageable now-red towel, and stands up to wash his hands. After running some water on a washcloth, he takes Star’s hands, not met with any protest at all. He rubs the blood off as best he can, not bothering to try to deal with the fact that some of it appears to be caked under Star’s nails. 

 

He helps Star down from the counter, practically lifting him up. It’s easy to forget how light he is, he’s so forceful and intense and deadly. All of his movements look so  _ weighted. _ But he’s also easily less than a hundred pounds because of the hollow bones thing, which still kind of freaks Rictor out. 

 

Star stumbles away from him, making the last few steps to the bed on his own before collapsing on top of the bed spread. Rictor grabs the TV remote, ready to pass it off to him, but Star grabs his wrists. He mumbles something in a language Rictor doesn’t understand, but it sounds familiar enough coming from Star.

 

Rictor debates for a few seconds, before taking a seat next to Star, who finally lets go of his wrists. He curls up on top of the blankets, forehead pressed against Rictor’s thigh. He clicks through the channels, looking for something Star usually likes, something with a narrative, overacted enough that he doesn’t have to ask questions about motivations or emotions. Star’s already asleep, but he might wake up later. 

 

Star’s healing factor is good, really good as far as healing factors go, but the more his body has to repair, the more tired he seems to get. It’s weird and kind of terrifying to see Star curled in on himself, almost fucking comatose. There are a lot of scars across his body, ones he never talks about. How many times has he been like this alone? Did anyone care enough to make sure he wasn’t dead, just trying to put himself back together?

 

Rictor’s not sure if he’s gonna be able to sleep at all tonight, his heart’s still beating a mile a minute and it’s hard to even sit still. But, if he moves, he’ll probably wake up Star, he sleeps so lightly.

 

Somehow, he slips into sleep, lulled into monotony by a truly horrible soap opera. Each time he opens his eyes, Star’s still asleep, the TV is still on, and he doesn’t feel any more rested than before. It’s impossible to gauge the passage of time between periods of consciousness, just gaps of dreamless restlessness between blinks.

* * *

When he finally wakes up properly, he feels terrible. Falling asleep sitting up is never comfortable and all the stress built up in his body has finally culminated in a ‘just got hit by a truck’ feeling. In an attempt to work out the crick in his neck, he stretches.

 

There’s sunlight filtering in through the blinds he’s  _ sure  _ he shut and Star’s not in the bed anymore. Rictor’s not as worried as he could be, because there’s no way Star made it far. He stumbles to the bathroom, hoping to wash out the terrible taste sticking to the back of his throat, only to find Star in front of the mirror.

 

“You need to practice stitching wounds,” he says, reflection looking directly at Rictor, “You said you could handle it, but you couldn’t. I have to take out your stitches and do it correctly.”

 

“Well excuse me for not knowing what to do when you’re half dead on the counter of a shitty motel bathroom. It’s not a situation I find myself in often,” Rictor pushes him out of the way in an action that’s half shoving, half nudging, to get to the sink.

 

Star shoves him back, “I can show you the  _ correct  _ way.”

 

“I’m kinda hoping I’ll never have to stitch you up again.”

 

“It’s a good skill. I’ve made use of it many times,” Star says, holding the now unstitched wound closed with his finger and thumb.

 

He doesn’t look up as he takes the needle in his other hand, pulling uniform stitches carefully through his skin, “The edges of the skin are only supposed to touch loosely. You pulled it tight. The skin will heal over the stitch if it’s too tight.”

 

He finishes off with a fluid knot, one that doesn’t actually touch his skin, and uses a knife to cut the excess thread. 

 

“Got it,” Rictor says, “I’ll keep that in mind, but there better not be a next time.”

 

“Your relatives shot me,” Star adds, blunt as ever.

 

“Just ‘cos we’re related doesn’t mean I like what they do.”

 

He doesn’t respond, instead choosing to look away from Rictor; his hands are tangled in his hair when he finally says, “I need more food.”

 

From the way he’s acting, it can’t be something easy to admit, but Rictor doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, “Yeah, definitely.”

 

“I didn’t touch anything of yours. But I need more, when healing. I apologize.”

 

“It’s  _ ours,  _ dude, all of the food is both of ours. And you were smart enough to grab some more money even with a fucking bullet in your stomach, it’s no big deal if you want something to eat.”

 

Star’s hands curl into fists, fingernails digging into his palms, “I am not… angry with  _ you _ . I just  _ am. _ ”

 

“It’s okay if you’re angry, really, you just got  _ shot _ ,” Rictor laughs, almost frantic.

 

“I am getting weak here. I should not have ended up so vulnerable.”

 

“You were fucking bleeding out, that’s not weakness, that’s just being normal,” Rictor adds, speaking around his toothbrush, “You good to come with, or should I just go?”

 

Star purses his lips, thinking for a bit before saying, “I want to take a shower.”

 

“Cool, cool, what do you want?”

 

“I liked the protein bars you picked out. And I  _ want  _ something sweet.”

 

“Got it,” Rictor says, “I’ll change and head out.”

 

The shorts from yesterday are still clean enough to wear again today. He throws on a tank top that’s probably Star’s, well, one of Bobby’s that was given to Star out of pity because he refuses to keep any possessions of his own. He probably needs a shower too, but things are weird after everything that happened yesterday and getting out will help to clear his head. 

 

He doesn’t bother driving, the town can’t be more than a couple of square miles across and he doesn’t mind walking. Being out and just wandering is the place he’s always felt most like himself. The sunlight helps. 

 

Being away from Star helps. Which is kind of expected, they’ve been in close quarters for the past three weeks and it’s painfully obvious that Star didn’t grow up around other people for any prolonged amount of time. There are drawn out periods of silence, where Star barely speaks at all and Rictor tries to fill the space between them because he can’t bear to be left alone with his thoughts.

 

Honestly, he’s surprised they haven’t fought before. Three weeks without any personal space, any interaction with other people, is enough to fray anyone’s nerves. It doesn’t help that this is basically one drawn out mission. They can’t relax, can’t enjoy anything other than stolen seconds of calm. Still, trying to help someone who literally got  _ shot  _ is a fucking weird thing to fight over.

 

They’re gonna have to talk. There’s no way around it, as much as Rictor hates serious conversations or really anything that involves opening up to people. Things have to be good between them because he’s counting on Star to have his back each time they take down a warehouse.

 

There’s one general store in town. It doesn’t actually carry the kind of protein bars he got earlier, not that he expected it to. So, he settles for the kind  _ he’d  _ get, hoping it’s good enough for Star. After walking aimlessly up each aisle, he settles on adding some dried fruits, nuts, and beef jerky to the basket. As he’s checking out, he throws in a couple of chocolate bars and the one potentially tourist-y thing in the entire shop: a disposable camera. 

 

By the time he’s walked back to the motel, he almost feels halfway normal. It’s nice to do something as mundane as grocery shopping, even if he’s buying groceries to split with the genetically engineered gladiator who just got shot in the name of trying to destroy his fucked up family’s business. 

 

In the room, he finds Star sitting on the bed, hair still wet as he carefully works his fingers through it. Despite all the best efforts from Tabs and Dom, he never actually accepted a comb or hairbrush from either of them, choosing instead to carefully pick apart each tangle he comes across.

 

Rictor sets the paper bag on the carpet, reaching in to grab the camera. It’s probably a stupid move because Star has a tendency to react badly when he feels like you’re trying to sneak up on him, but Rictor snaps a picture anyway.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Camera,” Rictor explains, tossing it Star’s way.

 

He catches it without looking up, turning it over in his hands, “The technology is so…  _ simple. _ ”

 

“Don’t take it apart, I’m fuckin’ warning you, dude. You already ruined my radio.”

 

“I put it back together,” Star shoots him a dark look.

 

“Yeah, and now it picks up radio stations across dimensions. You ruined it.”

 

With taking the camera apart to figure out how it works off the table, Star goes back to working on his hair. Rictor tosses one of the chocolate bars over, again snatched out of the air with a lightning-quick hand.

 

“Why do you need a camera?” Star’s moved on to braiding by now, still sitting with his back straight instead of relaxing against anything.

 

“I wanted to send some pictures back, let everyone know we’re still alive.”

 

“The majority of our teammates were afraid of me,” Star frowns, again proving himself to be better at reading people than expected.

 

“That’s probably true,” Rictor admits, “But I want Tabs to know I’m okay and I’m gonna make you take a picture with me whether you want to or not, because we’re friends and that’s what friends do.”

 

There’s probably not much in this world that Rictor could do to force Star to do something he didn’t want to, but that’s the one hyperbole that is never questioned. It probably means something that Star goes along with whatever he suggests. There’s probably a lot of things Star does that mean something.

 

After sitting next to Star, he takes the camera. Then, he winds it to the next picture, holding it out as far as he can. He slides back, not quite close enough to touch Star. It’s partially out of respect, partially because the idea of just casually touching him makes Rictor’s stomach twist. All that pretense is for nothing because he leans in closer, damp hair brushing against Rictor’s cheek. 

 

He takes a deep breath, making himself smile before snapping the picture. There’s a terrible, traitorous part of him that doesn’t want this moment to end. Star doesn’t move back, not even after Rictor lowers the camera, letting it rest on his lap. It’s like everything’s frozen, the two of them almost touching but not quite, and somehow it’s more terrifying than anything else that’s happened between them.

 

“You are the first person I have let touch me softly.” 

 

Then, Star stands up, leaving Rictor to try to deal with that bombshell of an admission as he heads for the door.

 

Rictor wants answers, wants to ask,  _ why me? Are you just doing this because I don’t hurt you? Because you don’t know that someone else could do this so much better?  _

 

But that’d involve actually verbally acknowledging any number of the things he’s been trying to choke down and never think about, so he doesn’t ask anything. 

 

The strap of his tank top is still damp from Star’s hair, and he can still kind of feel a ghost of an impression against his cheek. He flops backwards on the bed, covering his face with his hands as he groans. Everything is terrible and now he’s stuck on a road trip for the foreseeable future with Star, even when things are so fucking weird between them. 

 

He sighs, collecting himself enough to get up because he should probably go looking for Star before he gets into trouble. Thankfully, Star didn’t make it far. Rictor finds him sitting in the bed of the pick-up truck, legs dangling off the edge, aimlessly kicking at the gravel of the parking lot. Rictor takes a seat next to him and tries to think through what he could possibly say.

 

Star takes the opportunity from him, looking away from Rictor as he says, “I want to be alone.”

 

“Okay,” Rictor runs a hand through his hair, trying to make himself say something he really doesn’t want to, “But we’re gonna have to talk about all of  _ this  _ eventually.”

 

“It is always about  _ talking _ ,” Star’s voice is guttural, raw, slipping further back to the accent he had when Rictor first met him, “Everything is  _ always  _ about talking.”

 

“It’s not any easier when you’re used to it, trust me.”

 

Star’s fingers find their way up to the wound above his hip, working open the skin that’s only just started to knit itself back together. He rolls his shoulders forward, folding over like he doesn’t want Rictor to see.

 

Rictor keeps his voice as soft as he can, “Don’t do that.”

 

“It will  _ heal, _ ” Star spits the last word, “Do not give me  _ orders. _ ”

 

Rictor drops the subject, jumping down from the bed of the truck. 

* * *

He slams the door to their room behind him. He punches it once, before realizing that punching a door impulsively really fucking hurts.

 

“Fuck, god, fucking hell.” 

 

He drags his hands down his face, pacing the short distance from wall to wall. This is the first time he’s actually spent this much time with anyone other than Tabs and she’s the kind of person to get in a big argument then call it even the next day. Her anger is, for lack of a better word, explosive. Nothing like this silent, starving anger from Star. 

 

All of his frustration melts away into something heavy and sluggish in the afternoon heat. He falls back on the bed, palms pressed against his eyes like he can push away all the stupid angry tears building up. He really, really doesn’t want to move from the bed. Well, he really, really wants to take another walk and try to find that clarity he had earlier, but leaving the room means running the risk of seeing Star again. 

 

He’s terrible. Terrible and selfish and he deserves every part of this. 

 

Star doesn’t  _ get  _ people, doesn’t get earth. He’s just doing this because Rictor’s nice to him and Rictor’s just using him to try to work through all this bullshit because Star won’t try to stick a fucking label on him. 

 

Maybe Star won’t even come back. His swords are in the truck and there’s no reason for him to stay. 

 

That’s probably too easy, better than Rictor deserves. 

 

He’s already committed to trying to talk things through with Star and if he was any other guy in the world, the things Rictor has to say would be enough to make him leave and never look back. Bobby would probably punch him. God knows what Sam would do, he’s from Kentucky, for fuck’s sake.

 

It’s exactly why he left in the first place. The exact same fucking effect with none of the shame. He ends up alone and nobody has to know who he really is. They get to keep thinking of him as the person he’s so carefully constructed and he gets to stay safe.

 

And the worst part?

 

Being alone with Star almost made him think that he could be happy, almost made him think that he didn’t have to be alone.

 

Yeah, Star’s weird and infuriating and occasionally terrifying, but it’s nice to be the normal one. It’s nice to just forget about everything else, everyone else, all the expectations and consequences. 

 

_ I am not angry with you. I just am. _

 

That’s a cold comfort. 


	3. in which communicating is really hard and everyone has issues

It’s almost dark when there’s a knock at the door. Rictor tenses up for the time it takes him to realize that Star doesn’t actually have a key. When he opens the door, Star pushes past him with a dedicated intensity. Rictor turns back to find him standing on the other side of the cramped room, with the bed between them.

 

He’s seen this before, when they spar. Star always tries to keep his opponent as far away from him as possible. The swords make it pretty hard to get close, same for the gymnastics tricks. But if you do manage to get in close, he gets frantic. Like, ‘ _ stabbing himself in the stomach’  _ frantic. 

 

There’s probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but right now Rictor can’t be fucked to find it.

 

“The stitches are mine. Not yours.” 

 

“All this over stitches?” Rictor asks. 

 

There’s no way it’s all about stitches, but maybe he can push Star into elaborating instead of just acting like everyone understands whatever vague responses he gives. Even after all this time, he doesn’t get Star’s internal logic. Maybe that’s how Star feels whenever he looks at him, looks at everyone else he comes across. God, no wonder he’s so lonely.

 

“You didn’t help me,” Star says, “I don’t owe you.”

 

Rictor laughs, head thrown back, something manic and desperate that he can’t really stop, “You didn’t owe me anything! What was I supposed to do? Just let you fucking bleed out?”

 

Star looks away from Rictor, arms crossed.

 

“The answer’s no. No, I don’t let you bleed out.”

 

“I was slow. Not careful,” Star’s voice sounds pained, “You should not have interfered.”

 

“Slipping up doesn’t mean you deserve to die, dude.”

 

“I am tired of being  _ owned,  _ of  _ orders, _ ” Light catches Star’s teeth, hints at wide eyes framed by wild hair; he looks almost feral, “My life is  _ mine.  _ I die as I please.”

 

Rictor takes a step forward, keeping both hands in plain view as a show of good faith, “You know how ridiculous that sounds, right?”

 

When he doesn’t reply, Rictor takes another step towards him, one arm outstretched as he feels for the bed.

 

“You feel like there’s nothing you can control, right? And that’s the one thing you can actually choose.”

 

“I  _ want  _ to belong to myself.”

 

“I’m not good at this,” Rictor says, taking another step towards him, “Fuck, it’s usually the other way around. But I really don’t want you to do something stupid, because I like having you around.”

 

“You already left me once.”

 

“I know,” They’re only a few feet away now, Rictor takes a deep breath before taking a final step, “I’ll try to explain one day, just not now.”

 

Star folds against him. 

 

It’s not a hug by any definition of the word, Star’s arms are wrapped around his chest too tight to really be comfortable. Their cheeks are touching and it feels like Star’s bracing the entirety of his weight against Rictor. He guides both of them backwards, moving slowly in an attempt to find the bed in the dark without actually tripping. 

 

When they’re both mostly on the bed, Star shifts again. He ducks one shoulder under Rictor’s arm, loops his legs around Rictor’s waist, and pulls himself as close against Rictor’s side as he can. 

 

With his head tucked under Rictor’s chin, Star hums softly. It’s awkward and uncomfortable with Star clinging to him like this, but he seems so desperate for physical contact that Rictor just awkwardly pats his back.

 

When he starts to feel his arm going numb, Rictor decides it’s time for a change. Not too big of a change, because it’d just be cruel to tell Star to stop, but he has to find a better arrangement before Star falls asleep.

 

“I’ve got an idea.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Lay down and I’ll lay on top of you. That way we’re touching and you don’t have to squeeze so tight.”

 

Star disentangles from him, it must be an agreeable compromise because he lays back on the bed, looking up at Rictor expectantly. He’s kind of embarrassed at the idea of being so close to Star, but it seems to be something he genuinely wants. 

 

( _ Something they both want _ , he thinks,  _ but neither of them seem to know how to ask. _ )

 

He drapes himself over Star, stomachs pushed together but Star’s taller than Rictor so he ends up resting his head against Star’s chest. He’s not quite sure what to do with his arms, but their legs seem to slot together perfectly. Star hums quietly, low enough that Rictor can feel it.

 

“I am not sure if I can love,” Star’s words always sound deliberate, measured, even when they’re thick with sleep, “But I think I would like to love you.”

 

Star’s always quick to bring up the fact that he wasn’t  _ designed  _ for emotions, brandishing it like a shield more than an explanation or an excuse, a statement repeated enough times to sound like it’s true. But Rictor knows a thing or two about denial and someone who can’t feel anything wouldn’t be so angry, so desperate, so sad. 

 

“I told you I’d help you figure that out.”

 

* * *

When he wakes up, Star’s wrapped around him again, still seemingly asleep despite the fact it’s light out. It’s weird for him to sleep in, but he’s probably still worn out from repairing all that internal damage. 

 

“I’m gonna go shower,” Rictor keeps his voice quiet.

 

Star responds by squeezing Rictor tighter, pressing his forehead up against Rictor’s side, apparently only faking sleep.

 

“It’s been like five days, dude,” Rictor pleads, “I’m not as obsessive as you are about staying clean and so much shit’s happened.”

 

Star lets go hesitantly, drawing out the motion as long as possible. Then, Rictor stands up, grabbing a fresh set of clothes from his backpack on the floor. He shuts the door behind him, turning the shower on in the hopes that the water will actually run hot. When the mirror starts to fog up, he leans back against the wall.

 

At this rate, he’ll never get around to telling Star  _ anything  _ and all of his bullshit hangups feel so trivial compared to the kind of things Star’s been telling him. He tests the water, deciding it’s as hot as it’s gonna get, then peels off his clothing.

 

Under the tepid water, he feels exposed, stripped back enough that he can’t stop himself from shaking. Maybe, just maybe, he cries, but there’s no way to prove it. 

 

It’s not long before bathroom door opens. Star steps inside, almost silently. Rictor wants to tell him to leave, wants to make it so no one ever sees him like this, all the carefully constructed layers peeled back. But things are so shaky between them and if he pushes Star away now, he might never come back.

 

Instead, he grabs the towel slung over the shower curtain rod, stepping out with the water still running. 

 

The locker rooms were already bad enough, every movement calculated painstakingly when everyone else seemed to act so casually. He always felt guilty and terrible, unable to look right at anyone on the team or join in with the rest of their conversations. If someone noticed him, they might realize he didn’t belong there. It was methodical; get in, get out, don’t look at anyone because they might see him for who he really is.

 

It’s even worse in such a tight space. Star’s already stripping down and he finds himself looking at his blurred reflection, looking at the cracked drywall, looking at the water stains on the ceiling, looking at anything but Star.

 

It’s plainly obvious that Star doesn’t have any shame, but Rictor’s stomach twists with the sinking realization that being watched, being  _ owned,  _ might have something to do with that. It’s something he’s never put together before, not until last night, not until Star’s admission.  _ I want to belong to myself. _

 

“The water’s not that warm,” Rictor finally says, stumbling over his words all the while.

 

“It is warmer than I am used to.”

 

Rictor finally looks up when Star’s back is turned to him, eyes catching on a new constellation of bloody spots etched into his skin. Rictor doesn’t bring it up, just grabs his clothes and slips out into the room. He pulls on the clean set of clothes, leaving the towel slung over bathroom door handle so he doesn’t have to go back inside. 

 

Taking a seat on the bed, he pulls out the folder full of plans from his backpack. They’ve already hit three warehouses, but he jots down a note to remember to find out whether or not the next site has a backup generator. They’ve been in this place too long, and apparently they’re close enough that people can recognize him, so they probably need to get going. Rictor also needs to find somewhere with a computer so he can double check all his intel. He doesn’t want Star to get hurt again.

 

The water shuts off and Rictor’s mind drifts back to his promise, they’d go back to the desert and it’d be better this time. It’ll have to wait, just like so many other things. They’re too far along, if they don’t keep up the momentum, they’ll be caught and there’s so many more of his family than the two of them can take.

 

Star slips from the bathroom, taking a seat behind Rictor on the bed. He tenses when he feels Star’s fingers ghost against his head, but forces himself to relax enough that Star knows this is okay. He works his fingers through Rictor’s hair, pulling it back, out of his line of sight.

 

“You always look like you’re hiding,” Star says, carefully twisting strands together.

 

Rictor shuts his eyes, focusing on the feeling of Star behind him, “I think I am.”

 

“I want you to explain. You said you would  _ explain _ .”

 

Well, it looks like they’re doing this now, whether he wants to or not. Rictor chokes down the lump in his throat, searching for the best place to start.

 

“It was about control.”

 

Rictor feels his hair fall back against his cheeks; Star starts the process over again, combing Rictor’s hair back as he makes a low noise that sounds like an invitation to continue on.

 

“Letting Cable in my head meant I wouldn’t get a choice. When he called me about you, I was fucking terrified. He didn’t seem like the type to have a good reaction about,” Rictor winces, dropping to a whisper, “Uh,  _ y’know _ . But he still asked me to come help you. And he didn’t even say anything to me.”

 

“He told me that you were not a weakness,” Star sounds soft, almost gentle, but that might just be wishful thinking.

 

That. That is not what he was expecting.

 

He was expecting to find out that Cable quietly tolerated him, that he kept it quiet because it’d reflect badly on him, not out of any courtesy to Rictor. 

 

If Cable doesn’t hate him, it makes all the terror tangled in his chest feel so  _ hollow.  _ A great, gaping, empty feeling that’s only made worse by the fact that he’d still do everything exactly the same even knowing this.

 

It’s impossible to breathe and he finds himself doubled over, wracked with a sob he didn’t realize was happening. He tries to tell his body to run but the message gets lost in translation. He only makes it as far as sliding off the bed, legs weightless underneath him. Burying his face in his hands is a pointless gesture because it’s already so fucking obvious what’s happening, but he does it anyway.

 

The only thing he can hear is the sound of his blood pounding in his ears as he claws his way back to something resembling calm. He doubles over again, trying to fold himself into something too small to see. His lips are moving but he can’t form words when it feels like he’s drowning.

 

“I’m sorry,” he slips between ragged, desperate breaths, “I’m sorry, don’t look at me.”

 

There’s a quiet thud as Star drops down next to him. Rictor steals a glance at him through his fingers, vision marred with black spots. Star looks lost. Lost and almost  _ scared _ . He leans his forehead against his knees, sobs subsided to something persistent but manageable.

 

“I can’t remember what’s me anymore,” his voice is raw, “I don’t know if there’s anything left.”

 

“I can only copy,” Star says, “I watch. I copy. I am a blade pretending to be a person. We are the same.”

 

Rictor doesn’t have a response, doesn’t have much of anything other than the deep ache in his chest. Star leans forward, quietly gathering up the blueprints scattered across the stained carpet. There’s a numb awareness that he was holding the folder of intel before all of this happened. Star tucks them back into the folder, passing it wordlessly to Rictor. He holds it tight against his chest. It’s the only thing that feels real, solid.

 

“We should go,” Rictor says, uncertain if he can even stand yet.

 

Star nods before standing up. His movements are always quiet, efficient, and he gathers up all the things they own between the two of them in a matter of minutes. He tucks them carefully into their respective bags, slipping from the room with the two of them slung over his back. Rictor stays on the floor, trying to collect himself enough to be able to move.

 

When Star comes back to the room, he gets up. It’s stilted and awkward and every part of him feels contorted and stiff. 

 

“I can drive,” Star offers.

 

“No, you  _ can’t _ .”

 

“It would not be hard to learn.”

 

Rictor laughs, wiping the back of his hand against his eyes, “I’m not gonna let you try to drive for the first time when we’re on the run from my family and can’t afford to crash my truck.”

 

Star shoots him an annoyed look, arms crossed, but he wouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t concerned. Star’s never offered to drive before.

 

“I’m fine, really, it happens.”

 

“Does it hurt? When you,” Star curls in on himself as he brings his hands up to cover his face in an attempt to convey a meaning he has no words for.

 

Rictor’s struck with a pang of self-consciousness now that he’s confronted with his actions from before. He goes to run a hand through his hair, only to find the remnants of the braids from Star.

 

“Yeah, it really fucking hurts.”

 

“You feel so much,” Star’s hand drifts aimlessly to the wound on his side, pressing his nails against it through his shirt, “I think I used to be able to feel more... Sometimes I think I feel more now, but it might just be a memory.”

 

“We’re pretty fucked up, aren’t we?”

 

Star makes a quiet noise of consideration.

 

* * *

Star tags along when Rictor goes to check out. He passes back the key, along with a wad of cash.

 

< _ Sorry about the blood, you can buy some new towels if you want.> _

 

The man behind the counter pales slightly at the mention of blood, but takes the money anyway.

 

< _ Don’t worry, _ > Star adds, lifting his shirt enough for the stitches to be visible, < _ It was not fatal. _ >

 

Rictor elbows him in the ribs, glaring at him as he whispers, “Dude. Don’t show off the hole in your side.”

 

“I am  _ trying  _ to comfort him. He will not have to worry about disposing of a body,” Star turns back to the counter and gives the man a smile that can only be described as looking rehearsed, < _ We’re leaving now. Goodbye.> _

 

He turns on his heels, heading back out of the small office. Rictor offers an apologetic smile before darting off after Star. He’s already standing next to the truck when Rictor’s out of the office. Curse him and his stupidly long legs, Rictor left only a few seconds after him. 

 

“We’re gonna have to work on your social skills,” Rictor shouts across the parking lot.

 

There’s too much space between them to be sure, but it looks an awful lot like Star rolls his eyes. It’s an action that’s so  _ normal  _ and Rictor can’t help but laugh. His body is gonna hate him tomorrow, there’s always a delayed reaction after he has a panic attack, but right now things feel pretty good.

 

“Since when do you roll your eyes?” 

 

“Since now.”

 

Star responds like it’s the most logical thing in the world and Rictor finds himself laughing again. He unlocks the driver’s side and gets in before leaning across to the passenger side door to unlock it. Star grabs the handle, opening it the rest of the way. Rictor pulls out of the parking lot, turning onto the main road; in five minutes time, the town is only a speck on the horizon.

 

“There are too many rules,” Star wrinkles his nose, “Known to everyone but me. I am at a disadvantage, so I ignore the unimportant ones.”

 

“Not showing strangers the place where you got shot is one of the important ones. Most people don’t get shot or stabbed or basically anything that happens to us.”

 

Star drums his fingers against the door, eyes trained out the window, “I did not ask for this life.”

 

“Neither did I, dude, it just sorta happened.”

 

They’ve got another couple hours before Rictor feels justified in stopping for the night. They don’t really have a time-table for all of this, but by now someone’s probably been bailed out and told the rest of his family they’re coming. He hasn’t exactly been trying to hide his identity, but he isn’t intentionally bringing it up either. Hiding doesn’t seem worth it, nothing more than the difference between a bullet to the head or a bullet to the stomach as they all watch him bleed out for turning his back on family.

 

Star leans forward, digging through his duffel bag before sitting back up, disposable camera in his hands.

 

“You can use it if you want,” Rictor can see him tense slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to be spoken to, “You just have to twist the thing to the next picture each time. There’s only, like, twenty-ish pictures left so don’t use ‘em all.”

 

Star nods, turning the dial until it clicks. Then, he looks over at Rictor, bringing the camera up to his eye. There aren’t many existing pictures of Rictor out there, his mother has albums full of pictures a happy kid he barely recognizes, but they all stop at fifteen. Tabs took a few of the two of them together, but he doesn’t exactly make a habit of letting people take pictures of him.

 

Star snaps a picture, unbothered by the fact that Rictor keeps his eyes on the road to avoid having to look at the camera. Star twists the dial again, looking out the windshield. There isn’t much to see, just the flat unending horizon, halving rusty orange and deep blue. Not that Rictor doesn’t love it, it’s just pretty boring to most other people. That’s one of the things he likes most about Star; they’ve been out here for three weeks and Star still looks at the desert with awe.

 

After taking another picture of the road ahead, Star tucks the camera back into the bag. He braces his elbow against the door, then leans his head against his hand. Star gets restless easily; even when he’s still, he looks only seconds away from action.

 

“You could look through radio stations, find something I can actually understand,” Rictor chooses his words carefully, trying to seem casual without giving something that might sound like an order, “Y’know, if you wanted to.”

 

“Why?”

 

It’s a genuine question. Star loves TV, but there’s something about music he just doesn’t  _ get.  _ It’s the same thing with reading. The only explanation offered takes the form of Star grasping at the air in that weird way he does when he can’t describe something, and the phrase ‘not  _ enough.’ _

 

“‘Cos we’ve got a couple hours to go, I’m bored, and you’re the one that broke my radio.”

 

“I  _ improved  _ it.”

 

“You added 200 extra stations and my brain can’t even physically comprehend half of them! I’m pretty sure one of them gave me a  _ nosebleed _ !”

 

Star relents, turning the radio on. He hits the seek button. It jumps to a station that sounds like jazz, or something adjacent to jazz, but Rictor’s pretty sure none of the instruments involved actually exist. 

 

The next station sounds generically power ballad-y with lyrics that sound like a language he should understand, but he can’t. Star jumps stations again, bringing them to an American news channel; Rictor’s almost content to just leave it at this, it’s something to fill the silence.

 

“...the drought that began mid-2011 continues on in Texas, New Mexico, and other adjacent…”

 

“Great,” Rictor says, running a hand through his hair, “We’re getting radio transmissions from the future. Cable would be proud. Or he’d berate us for fucking with the timeline.”

 

Star hits the seek button again, jumping to a channel that only plays a high pitched whine. That’s followed by a talk show, complete with laugh track, spoken entirely backwards. Star skips through a cluster of stations broadcasting morse code before finally landing on a station with some sort of rapid-fire commentary. Rictor can’t pick out the language, but it sounds like the words are running together. There’s a break in the speech, filled by the sound of people cheering.

 

Star looks frozen, eyes glazed over, utterly transfixed. He looks like he  _ understands.  _

 

The station cuts out abruptly, swallowed by the dull roar of static. Star wraps his arms around himself, eyes still vacant as his nails dig into the soft skin of his shoulders.

 

Rictor shuts off the radio, tries to sound as unthreatening and calm as possible, “What was that?”

 

“One of the fights. Recorded.” Star’s hand slips underneath his tank top, nails raking against the barely healed spots from earlier, “Very good, many views. Fed well after.  _ Everyone loves an underdog. _ ”

 

The last sentence doesn’t sound like Star at all. That isn’t necessarily unusual, he’s got a knack for repeating things he hears word for word, down to the inflection of the original. It’s not even unusual for him to quote things in a conversation to get a point across. But this sends chills down Rictor’s spine. 

 

In the time it takes to pull off the road and stop the truck, Star’s already contorted himself into something small. One arm loops around his knees, drawing them in tight to his stomach, the other’s still busy digging at his skin. The end of one of his braids hangs from his mouth; it looks like he’s chewing on it but now really isn’t the time to ask.

 

“Hey, look at me,” Rictor whispers.

 

Star peers over at him, green eye’s line of sight unobstructed, milky white eye only slightly visible through his hair.

 

“Look at where we are,” he continues, “It’s not an arena, or a fucking cage.”

 

“Might be more interesting to watch me pretend,” Star gives him a dark look.

 

“Are you still messed up about sitcoms? I promise, they’re doing that willingly.” 

 

This would probably be funny if he wasn’t the one who spent six hours explaining that the people in sitcoms weren’t the lucky ones chosen to live a life without fighting. That fact seemed to sink in by the end of it, but Star’s understanding of actors is still shaky.

 

“No. Just messed up.”

 

“That makes two of us,” Rictor pushes his hair out of his eyes, “You good to go or should we wait a bit?”

 

Star unwinds, careful and deliberate, then nods.


	4. in which ric has feelings about the earth and star learns about boundaries

Star spends the next two and a half hours staring out the window, forehead pressed against the glass. Rictor’s pretty sure he’s not asleep, but his eyes look so hollow that it amounts to basically the same thing. 

 

When the sun starts to fall and things start cool off, he pulls over for the night. They’re too far from civilization to try to make it to another motel, caught in the long stretch of cracked highway between two nameless towns. He unlocks the truck, hops down from his side, and walks over to the passenger’s side. Star sits up, looking only slightly more aware of his surroundings as Rictor opens the door. 

 

“Come here,” Rictor tries to sound as quiet and undemanding as he can.

 

Star gets out of the truck, still silent. He stands in front of Rictor, looking  _ through  _ him more so than looking  _ at  _ him.

 

“Take your shoes off,” Rictor says, kicking off his own sandals, “It sounds weird, but trust me.”

 

Star crouches down, untying his boots. The action looks empty, but Rictor can’t think of anything else to try. Star leaves his socks behind in his boots, stepping barefoot on the baked clay. 

 

“Do you know how my powers work?”

 

Star gestures aimlessly, settling on, “Fault lines.”

 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Rictor smiles, eyes shut, “Oversimplified, but right. It’s like I’m  _ part  _ of the earth, trying to fit inside this little body. I’m never alone, I can feel  _ everything _ , and if I’m not careful, sometimes the lines between us blur.”

 

He extends his hands, palms up, offering them wordlessly. Star covers Rictor’s hands with his own, holding them, loose and tentative.

 

“I want you to feel it too.”

 

His connection to the earth is always buzzing at the back of his mind. She’s quiet, gentle, loving, and sometimes he lets that connection wash over him. Whenever he feels more like the earth than himself, all his self loathing seems to disappear, a weight lifted off his shoulders.

 

He squeezes Star’s hands tight, waiting to see if he’ll pull away. When he’s certain Star isn’t going to leave, he lets that ever present feeling flow through his entirety. He’s still careful, restrained, utterly unwilling to hurt Star. The boundary between his feet and the rusted orange clay melts away. Energy seeps into his fingertips, pressed against Star’s wrists, until he can’t feel where he ends and Star begins. The only thing he can do is hope that Star feels the same kind of vastness that he does. 

 

Then, he breaks away. Face flushed hot, acutely embarrassed now that he’s come back to himself. This was probably stupid. He’s never told anyone that much before, but he doesn’t think Star would laugh or anything. It’s still terrifying to actually say it out loud. Even more terrifying to try to make Star feel the same way he does. Before actually doing it, trying to channel his power through Star made sense. They’ve got similar powers, even if Star rarely uses his.

 

Star looks at him, eyes narrowed, “What did you do to me?”

 

“Nothing, I just wanted you to understand.”

 

Star steps forward, holding his hand up close enough to Rictor’s cheek that he can feel the residual energy crackling off of it. He leans into it, the coolness of Star’s palm, the fading hum radiating from within. 

 

“I really, really want to kiss you right now, dude.”

 

“Then you should,” Star says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

 

Maybe it is. 

 

They’re alone, no one has to see, no one has to know. 

 

He bounces up on his toes, looping his arms around Star’s neck to pull him down to a more manageable height. Star’s stupidly tall, but that’s okay, everything is so perfectly okay. Star leans into it, hair brushing against Rictor’s shoulders. When their lips meet, he can taste some of his own power in his mouth.

 

He pulls back, guilt wrapping its way around his throat. It's not something he wants to get used to. He can't make himself a home out of this arrangement; he knows it's a short term situation, Star has to know that too. They'll break up enough of his family’s business that it collapses in on itself and then they'll find their way back to a team. A team where they can't be so fucking codependent and  _ definitely  _ can't do things like this. 

 

He wants nothing more than to keep running forever.

 

Maybe they could stop this desperate mission, slip into anonymity somewhere warm and endless with no walls or fences or subways. Maybe they could choose for once.

 

But that’s not realistic. Star doesn’t legally exist on earth, Rictor’s been on the news multiple times as an alleged dangerous evil mutant. HIs resume consists of the X-Terminators, the New Mutants, and X-Force, which aren’t the kind of things that get you hired at any kind of a livable job and it’s not like he could really go to college with the hand he’s been dealt. He never finished high school, Star hasn’t finished  _ any  _ school. It’s debatable whether Star would ever be able to adjust enough to live a quiet life, and it scares Rictor to think that adjusting to a normal life might be a problem for him, too.

 

Star very carefully pushes Rictor’s hair out of his eyes, fingers just barely brushing against his cheek. He tucks it back behind Rictor’s ears, eyes shining in the low light. Brings his fingers back to repeat the motion again. It’s such a soft gesture, feather-light touch like he’s not sure how to be this gentle. 

 

The times Star’s touched him before have always been too stilted, too rough to be anything other than a desperate attempt to adapt combat training. He even kisses like it’s an ambush; instantaneous and unexpected, bordering on vicious. 

 

Now, it’s almost like he’s caught in a loop, constantly smoothing Rictor’s hair back with unsteady hands.

 

Rictor puts his hands on Star’s shoulders, trying to steady him; he can feel goosebumps against his palms, “You okay?”

 

“I…” Star frowns, “I am not sure.”

 

“Are you cold? You’re shaking.”

 

Star worries his lip, “I am?”

 

“Yeah, dude,” Rictor pauses before adding, “I’ve got blankets in the truck.”

 

It’s a ploy to get Star to sleep, to lay down with him, not an entirely selfish one because Star doesn’t sleep much at all. The most he ever sleeps is when he’s hurt. There’s a shitty futon in the bed of the truck, but usually Rictor just sprawls out along the front bucket seats. 

 

He breaks away from Star, grabbing a few blankets from the space behind the seats. When he turns back, Star’s kneeling on the futon; he silently takes one of the blankets from Rictor, then starts the climb up onto the roof of the truck. All the other times they’ve pulled off to sleep, Star spends the night sitting up there, assigning himself the role of lookout. Then, he spends the next day sleeping in shifts as Rictor drives.

 

“Don’t do that,” Rictor whispers, “You don’t have to sleep, but at least lay down.”

 

“The only thing I have to offer you is protection,” Star looks pained, holding the blanket to his chest.

 

“It’s just one night. Please?”

 

Star lies down without protest; Rictor climbs up to join him, covers himself partially with the blanket Star’s using. He runs hot, Star runs cold, but it works out whenever they’re close together. 

 

“Things were never good at home,” Rictor starts, words catching in his throat when he realizes Star probably won’t understand any of this, it doesn’t sound like he has any family at all.

 

Star looks over at him and makes a low noise, nudging him to continue.

 

“They weren’t  _ that  _ bad, always could’ve been worse, but they weren’t good. So I didn’t like being at home. And there were always so many people around, so many cousins spending the night ‘cos their fathers had business with my father, no one noticed if I was gone. I’d just slip out of the house and spend the day outside, as far away from everyone else as I could get. And sometimes, I’d sleep out there.”

 

He laughs, more out of nervousness than actually finding the situation funny, “It was a stupid thing to do. There’s so many things that could happen to a kid out there, but it was better than going home. It sounds really stupid, but I think the earth helped keep me safe.”

 

Star doesn’t offer a response; the silence makes Rictor antsy, especially after admitting something he’s never really told anyone else. He scrambles looking for anything to talk about, anything to avoid being confronted with his own vulnerability.

 

He nudges Star with his knee, sitting up against the cab of the truck before pointing up at the sky, “See that really bright star? That’s Sirius. You can’t really make out of the rest of the constellation right now, but it’s part of Canis Major.”

 

Star props himself up on one hand, gaze trained in the direction Rictor’s pointing. Star can see better than most people, Rictor knows that for sure; Star and Feral could see things no one else on the team was capable of, but he’s not sure of the extent of his abilities. 

 

“If you look up a bit that way, there’s Orion’s Belt. Orion’s the hunter, those five stars make up his bow, and you can kinda pick out the rest of him after finding the belt and the bow.”

 

“I had never seen stars,” his voice is quiet, almost reverent, “Before coming with you. I was a stranger to my namesake. You all give names to everything, living or not, but I had to  _ take _ one.”

 

It’s not something Rictor ever thought about, but there was probably too much light pollution in New York to really see the night sky like they can out here. There’s also the fact that there doesn’t seem to be much of anything on Mojoworld other than fights to the death, from what Star tells him. 

 

“Nothing belongs to me,” Star says, it’d be more of a comfort if he sounded angry, resentful, but he says it like it’s normal, “Everything I have, I stole. Stolen name, stolen words, stolen body.”

 

“Hey,” Rictor whispers, almost reaching out for Star.

 

He bares his teeth, words laced with a ferocious intensity, “I was not made for  _ this,  _ but I will fight for it. And if needed, I will die for it.”

 

“We’ll deal with that when it comes down to it,” Rictor reaches out, smoothing back Star’s hair in a mirror of his actions earlier, silently adds,  _ please don’t die for me, I’m probably not worth it. _

 

Star closes his eyes, gentle hum caught in his throat, “I like pretending that I am something more, that I am whole.”

 

“I don’t think you’re pretending.”

 

“I do not know how to be anything other than a weapon,” Star sounds strained, slow and accented again.

 

“You’re learning,” Rictor brushes his hand against Star’s cheek, “You might not be able to see it, but I can. You spent, what, sixteen years on Mojoworld?”

 

“Seventeen,” Star corrects.

 

“That’s a lot to unlearn, dude. You’re doing great.”

 

“I wish I could be soft like you,” Star doesn’t push him away, but doesn’t move closer either, “Soft sometimes means cowardice, which I do not understand. I have never encountered something more terrifying.”

 

“I’m fucking terrified, too,” Rictor laughs, fingers tangled in Star’s hair, “Just good at hiding it.”

 

Star shifts into a position that has to be more comfortable than propping himself up on his hand. Rictor runs his fingers down the length of Star’s hair, finally stopping at his shoulder, where he just rests his hand, fingers tapping aimlessly against Star’s skin. With his other hand, he cups Star’s cheek. He closes his eyes, takes a moment to let it all sink in. Then, he works on quietly memorizing this closeness, the way Star’s breathing evens out when he gets used to Rictor’s hands against him. 

 

He presses his fingertips against the back of Star’s neck, just barely ghosting his thumb over the raised flesh of his star mark. He could kiss him right now, god knows he wants to, but he can’t find the nerve to move. Maybe, if he’s lucky, Star will take the initiative.

 

Star’s eyes go wide. Rictor can feel him set his jaw. There’s a split second blur of Star grabbing his wrist. He jerks Rictor’s hand away from him. Then, he jumps up and over the side of the truck, leaving Rictor in stunned silence.

 

When his mind finally catches up with his body, he shouts at the empty air, “Star! Wait!”

 

He’s still sure that one day Star will realize that he really isn’t the kind of person you can get close to, but this doesn’t feel like that. It’s fucking weird no matter what it is and Star’s already too far away to ask exactly what the hell is going on.

 

He feels terrible. Terrible and shaky and kind of like he wants to throw up. The only comfort he can find is the knowledge that if Star  _ really  _ wanted to hurt him, he would have broken his arm. Star (probably) didn't push him away because he's disgusted by him. Star (probably) doesn't hate him, doesn't know why Rictor feels like a thief each time he brushes up against him. 

 

But he can still feel Star’s hand wrapped around his wrist, still see his wide eyes. It's different, different than what most guys would do if he touched them like that. The look in his eyes wasn't the sudden realization that he let his guard down around someone  _ like him. _ It was a feral, terrified look. Star’s not safe by any means, he's reckless and deadly and probably going to die young, but he's a lot safer than anyone else. Safe to hold. Safe to be close to.

 

Of course this had to happen just when it seemed like they were getting somewhere. Star wasn’t being as incomprehensible as usual, both of them were actually kind of talking through things. It’s a harsh reminder that Star’s still really fucking weird and confusing, but he has to believe there’s a reason for Star bolting like he did.

 

He’s angry, in a horrible cyclical way. The fact that he’s pissed at Star only makes him more pissed at himself. Star’s told him over and over that he’s not used to physical contact. That’s what he gets for thinking he can do normal…  _ things  _ with Star with the expectation he’ll react normally. And honestly, Rictor can’t stop himself from considering, that might be part of why he’s doing  _ this  _ instead of just pushing everyone away forever. 

 

(If Star was even a bit more well-adjusted, he might want to go on  _ dates  _ which is not a concept that Rictor can deal with at all.)

 

(Fuck.)

 

(That’s the first time he’s ever thought about the idea of  _ dates _ .)

 

(There was Tabs, but a date with Tabs would basically be the exact same as every other time they did something together, which was safe. Normal. He knew exactly what to do to make it seem real.)

 

(He really wants to be unconscious right now.)

 

The truck creaks as Star climbs back into the bed. If he really wanted to, he could’ve done it silently, which has to count for something.

 

“Why would you do that?” Rictor can’t stop himself from yelling, he’s only partially angry at Star but this is something that’s been building up for a while, “Just fuck off without saying anything? No explanation at all?”

 

Star’s crouched at the end of the futon, eyes narrowed, head cocked to the side. He can’t make out Star’s expression in the dark, just the slight shine of his eyes, not glowing so much as reflecting.

 

“You can’t just run off!” Rictor throws his hands up, “If I have to try to talk things out, you have to do it too!”

 

“Had to stop it,” Star sounds almost hoarse, “Felt…  _ Bad. _ ”

 

“Fuck,” Rictor says, pushing his hair back, they can’t really have a conversation with Star like this, sometimes it’s like he forgets how to talk, “I probably shouldn't have yelled at you.”

 

“ _ Used to that _ ,” Star whispers.

 

Star crawls up along the futon before curling in on himself, back pressed up against the metal of the truck bed. Rictor shifts until he’s lying down, keeping a careful gap between the two of them. The movement makes Star look up at him. Part of him wants to reach out, but that’s probably a really bad idea right now. 

 

He pushed things too far, crossed a line neither of them seemed to know about. He was just starting to get used to the idea of touching Star, but now he’s just as uncertain and anxious as when they first started  _ this.  _

* * *

 

 

When he wakes up, Star’s sitting on the roof of the truck. He’s pretty sure Star slept at least a little bit, mostly because he kept himself awake until it looked like Star was asleep. He sits up, stretches out until his back pops; Star doesn’t look back.

 

“Look,” Rictor says, leaning up against the cab of the truck, “You have to tell me what the  _ fuck  _ happened last night.”

 

When he’s met with stubborn silence, he adds, “I’m not mad anymore. I just want to know what happened.”

 

“I did not expect that being touched would feel bad,” Star doesn’t look at him, just stares out towards the horizon, “I may have overreacted.”

 

“No shit,” Rictor laughs, “Where did you even go?”

 

He points off the side of the truck, “That direction, until I could not see the encampment. Then I came back.”

 

“You know you can always just tell me to stop, right?”

 

Rictor’s chest aches when he realizes he isn’t going to get a reply.

 

“Was it ‘cos I touched your mark?” Rictor pushes at him gently, trying to coax out an elaboration.

 

“Maybe,” Star pauses to think, adding, “Or my neck.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind. But you have to tell me next time, I’ll stop whatever I’m doing, I promise. You can’t just run off like that, I…” Rictor rubs at the back of his neck, trying to force himself to speak, “I was kinda worried that. Uh. That you hated me. Or realized how terrible I am.”

 

“I do not believe anyone else has come this close to me and lived,” Star says, cool and detached, “Only you.”

 

“I know, I know. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking it.”

 

“You were my first kiss. Earth assigns a certain significance to that. A rite of passage, it seems.”

 

“Uh,” Rictor falters, suddenly really glad they aren’t actually looking at each other, “I guess it means as much as you want it to.”

 

Star turns back, leaning down until his eyes meet Rictor’s with the cold glare of a predator, “Are you my boyfriend?”

 

Rictor’s heart just about stops. His mouth runs dry, palms cold and clammy. There’s a light-headed giddy feeling, balanced out by the weight of fear in his stomach.

 

“I’m not sure at what point the title is earned, but I have been making note of the romantic tropes I felt adequately fit our experiences.”

 

“I’m not sure that what we’re doing counts as romantic,” Rictor answers numbly, it’s the only thing he can actually bring himself to say, “You got  _ shot. _ ”

 

“The point,” Star’s voice is serious in the way he always gets about TV, “Is that a trope is identifiable across contexts. Getting shot was irrelevant.”

 

“ _ Okay _ ,” Rictor says, collecting himself enough to give a partial answer, “I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s something I can be okay with.”

 

Star frowns, “This is more complicated than expected.”

 

“Welcome to having feelings, dude.”

 

“Everything always works out on television,” he worries his lip, twists a strand of hair around his finger, “I have no frame of reference for this situation.”

 

“We can still do  _ this, _ ” Rictor gestures between the two of them, “But I don’t think I can be your, uh…”

 

Fuck, he can’t even bring himself to say it; he sighs, cheek pressed against the cold metal of the truck, “Not yet.”

 

Star nods. Rictor’s quietly thankful that he doesn’t press anything. Every day where he doesn’t have to explain what he’s so terrified of admitting to himself is a good day. It’d barely be an explanation at all with all the words he can’t bring himself to say, and Star doesn’t seem to do well with vagueness.

 

“Let’s go,” he says, patting the roof by Star’s leg in lieu of actually touching him because he’s not sure if that’s something that’s okay right now, “We’ve still got work to do.”

 

Star drops down off the roof, climbing up into the passenger’s side. Rictor folds the blanket up enough to cram it into the space behind their seats, joining his backpack in covering the case with Star’s swords. 

 

He’s purposely been taking the back roads, winding and hard to track because he likes to play it safe. That also means they often go hours without any hint that anyone else exists. It’s strange to be alone without being  _ lonely,  _ but that’s exactly what this is; an intoxicating feeling that they’re the only two people in the world. It’s a feeling he wants to live inside of forever.

 

Star slides across the bucket seat, cold fingers pressing against the other side of Rictor’s cheek. It gives him enough leverage to just slightly pull Rictor in closer, close enough to kiss the side of his face in an awkward, messy way.

 

Star’s really bad at it, but it’s pretty fucking endearing; he nudges him away with his elbow, laughing, “I’m trying to drive, dude.”

 

“I’m becoming selfish,” Star twists around Rictor’s arm to kiss his cheek once more, “I was content to feel anything at first, but now I only want to feel good.”

 

“That’s normal,” Rictor laughs again, “That’s, like, the most normal thing you’ve ever said.”

 

“To hurt was something, but now it’s not enough.”

 

“Is that why you always pick at your cuts? ‘Cos it just makes them last longer than they have to.”

 

“I…” Star pauses, “I do not know. I have always done that.”

 

Rictor sighs, “Doing things to hurt yourself just so you can feel something is a hard habit to break, but you don’t  _ have  _ to do it.”

 

He’s probably a hypocrite, there are so many things he’s doing that are eating him alive from the inside out, but Star listens to him. He’s one of the few people to actually get through to him, other than fucking  _ Cable  _ of all people.

 

Changing the subject, Rictor adds, “We’ll be close to the next site by two-ish. I have to see if I can find a computer somewhere to check my intel, but we can probably get another motel.”

 

“Can we go to another restaurant?” 

 

“If you want to, yeah,” Rictor turns enough to make it clear that he’s smiling at Star.

 

“I want to.” 

 

Being this close to someone for so long makes it easy to pick up on their quirks, like the fact that Rictor can count on one hand all the times Star’s actually said he  _ wants  _ something. And a restaurant is much more mundane and manageable than wanting to belong to yourself. Rictor’s still trying to figure that one out, too.


	5. in which ric goes to a library, star has opinions about alien, and they both wish life was different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a bit early today because I have to get up for work tomorrow and can't stay up til midnight! Enjoy the early chapter!

They crawl through the first town they come across; Star’s back to messing with the camera again and he snaps a few pictures as Rictor keeps an eye out for a library. It’s a futile search, this town looks half dead, but he’s not too concerned. They’ve got a buffer zone of another hour and a half to find somewhere with a computer that’s close to the next warehouse. 

 

He’s made it this far without having to double check any intel, but it’s definitely going to bother him until he can make sure everything’s okay. He can’t relax after last time, after Star got hurt. It wasn’t even that bad, Star heals so quickly, but it still feels like his fault. He should’ve considered the possibility of a backup generator, he thought about everything else. They both know the risks, the danger involved in a life like this, but anything he can do to control the situation is a comfort.

 

He’s starting to get tired and Star’s starting to get twitchy and neither of them can seem to hold an actual conversation to distract themselves. Star keeps fidgeting with the camera, turning it over in his hands without actually breaking the promise that he wouldn’t take it apart. Rictor doesn’t want to try the radio again; the idea that people are  _ still  _ watching Star’s fights makes his stomach twist. 

 

The majority of the time, Star looks careful, measured, absolutely delicate, moving with the grace of a dancer as he fights, but that’s only when he’s sure he’s got the upper hand. He likes to show off, likes praise, not that he’d ever actually admit it, but it’s pretty easy to tell. Star talks a big game, acts like he’s proud of his reputation, his  _ accomplishments _ , but there was no pride in his eyes when he heard the broadcast.

 

Star was almost unrecognizable then, he looked cornered, ready to lash out at any moment. Maybe that desperate, wild-haired, feral-looking Star is the one thousands watched as he fought to live a life he didn’t even own. A roaring crowd, drunk on blood-lust, watching that terrified expression for  _ fun.  _ Maybe he’s spent so much time feeding himself on lies about glory and honor and pride that he  thinks it’s all true.

 

Rictor probably won’t ever be able to forget watching him stab himself in the stomach for the first time. Even with a healing factor, that takes dedication. Especially since he seems to have the wherewithal to actually pull his own fucking swords out of his stomach after literally stabbing himself. 

 

Apparently, the monotony is starting to get to Star, too. The hem of his shirt is pushed up past his hip and he’s picking at the stitches with dedicated fingers, like he could pull them all out.

 

“We can probably take the stitches out,” Rictor says, “It looks good enough.”

 

The wound on Star’s hip is healed to the point where his healing factor taps out. Star explained it to him a while ago; once the wound’s closed, all the rest is superficial and the energy required to fix it would take more out of him than it’s worth.

 

“I’ll pull over,” Rictor adds, “We can take a break and I’ll take out your stitches.”

 

After he parks, Star takes a seat in the bed of the truck, legs dangling off the edge as Rictor stands between them. He takes out the pair of tweezers and his pocket knife, ideally he’d like to sterilize it but Star seems pretty sturdy. Then, he presses his fingers against Star’s side, trying to figure out the best way to cut the stitches loose. He settles for slipping the very tip of the blade under the surgical thread, sharp side up. 

 

The first stitch pops loose, so he moves onto the second. Once they’re all loose, Rictor goes back over with the tweezers, pulling them all out. Little beads of blood well up in their place, but it’s nothing too bad. Star swipes his finger across the blood, repeating the action until his skin’s clean before wiping his fingers on his shirt.

 

“That’s gross, dude,” Rictor says, taking a seat next to him.

 

“It is only blood.”

 

“Yeah, and having blood stains all over your clothes is gross. Especially when they’re my clothes and you just keep stealing them.”

 

Star gives him a defensive look, eyes narrowed, “You said I could wear your shirts.”

 

“I know, it’s just… Figure of speech,” Rictor sighs, “We’re sharing them. Doesn’t mean I want you to bleed on them.”

 

Star rolls his eyes, “I will no longer bleed on your shirts.”

 

“Good,” Rictor shoots him a grin, “I’d  _ really  _ appreciate not trying to get blood stains out of my clothes in the middle of a laundromat.”

 

Star still has a habit of deadpanning his way through sarcasm, but there are tells if you know how to look. The fact that he’s started rolling his eyes is just one of many, like the way he tilts his head just slightly and watches the person’s reactions with an unblinking intensity as if he’s trying to make sure he’s doing it  _ right _ . It’s something Rictor had noticed even before they left; he can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened but he’s pretty sure that he can read Star better than anyone else.

 

“That first night, when you were really fucked up, you started speaking this  _ language _ . Really guttural, like nothing I’d ever heard before,” Rictor wrings his hands in his lap, feeling like this is somehow a line he’s crossing, “What was it?”

 

“Cadre,” Star answers after a long pause of silence, almost hesitant, “One of my languages. The first one given to me.”

 

“Yeah,” Rictor laughs, head thrown back, “English wasn’t my first language either.”

 

“English was my first language. It just was not  _ given  _ to me,” Star’s hands curl to fists, quiet rage in his eyes.

 

“You’re gonna have to elaborate a bit… I have no idea what that means.”

 

Star looks away from him, fingers falling to the cut on his side, only to find it’s mostly healed, “I was not spoken to often. But people spoke  _ around  _ me, so I learned. English was most common among the commentators. I was taught Cadre later.”

 

“Would you teach me Cadre?”

 

Star finally looks at him, eyes narrowed like he’s sizing him up. Rictor’s face flushes, and he panics, worried that asking this might’ve been too much.

 

“I’m just saying, you, uh, learned Spanish so you could speak with me privately but lots of people know Spanish, y’know, and you’re probably the only guy on earth who knows Cadre,” he’s rambling now, fingers picking at the loose spot on the hem of his shirt, “I mean, I can’t learn like you can, you learn everything so fast and only stumble over things for a little bit. But I want to try, it’d be pretty cool.”

 

“I will try,” Star says; he doesn’t sound nearly as angry as Rictor was expecting considering that look he gave him.

 

“We’re not far from the next town,” Rictor jumps down from the truck, standing in front of Star, “We should probably just get it over with. I’ll stop for the night even if they don’t have a library, you looked really bored before we stopped.”

 

Star reaches out, meeting Rictor’s eyes with a severe look. His fingertips press against the soft flesh of his cheek, not quite hard enough to leave behind bruises but the sentiment is there. Rictor’s getting a bit more comfortable with all of  _ this,  _ but not quite ‘visible bruises as a result of physical contact from Star’ levels of comfortable. 

 

“Ease up a bit, you don’t have to press so hard.”

 

Star isn’t one to do things in half measures, not even things like this; he pulls back until his fingers are barely touching Rictor’s skin, bringing that uncomfortable buzz of proximity without pressure. Rictor covers Star’s hand with his own, pressing it closer against his cheek with it still being a lighter touch than before. Then, Star leans forward and kisses him. 

 

The action’s sporadic enough to catch Rictor off guard and it brings two revelations:

 

  1. Star kisses with his eyes open.
  2. Star’s _definitely_ getting better at kissing.



 

It’s drawn out, nothing like the other times where it was a quick and calculated maneuver. Star’s lips aren’t exactly soft but his probably aren’t either, they’re both pretty fucking dehydrated these days.

 

When Star pulls back, Rictor takes a few seconds to catch his breath before laughing, “You’re allowed to shut your eyes, you don’t have to keep them open.”

 

Star wrinkles his nose, “I  _ prefer  _ to be aware of my surroundings.”

 

“Dude, your surroundings right now are me, the truck, and a metric fuck ton of desert.”

 

“You can never be too careful.”

 

“I’m pretty sure you can be,” he grins at Star, “Let’s get back on the road, putting it off is just gonna make the drive worse.”

 

* * *

The next town they pull into is a lot bigger than the last couple they’ve stopped in. Star visibly relaxes as they pass the welcome sign, and Rictor’s pretty ready to not be driving, too. There’s only one motel in the town, nestled in the center near a strip mall, but it doesn’t look too run down.

 

Rictor kills the ignition, “Let’s check in first, then we can walk around.”

 

Star nods, getting out of the truck with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The only person behind the counter is a teenage girl, messy hair, big glasses, probably working a summer job. 

 

< _ We’re gonna need a room for a couple nights.> _

 

_ <One bed or two?> _

 

< _ One _ ,> Star interjects.

 

Rictor quickly fumbles through a desperate justification, < _ I’m just gonna sleep on the couch.> _

 

_ <Whatever,> _ The girl adds, no hint of interest in her voice. 

 

She hands the key to Star as Rictor counts out his money. After paying, he thanks her before ducking out of the room, leaving Star to speed up to match his pace.

 

Rictor drops his voice to a harsh whisper, angling his body away from the sidewalk because people might overhear them, “Great job, putting me on the spot like that.”

 

“I don’t understand. We only need one bed,” Star says, brows furrowed, “And she asked.”

 

“You can’t just  _ tell  _ people that. They might think we’re…”

 

_ Might think you’re what, exactly? All the plausible deniability kind of went out the window when kissing Star started becoming a regular thing. _

 

He pushes his hair back with a shaking hand, “Look, I’m sorry, I’m not really mad at you. It’s just… Fuck, I can’t explain this here.”

 

“It’s because of your secret, correct?”

 

Part of him wants to say yes, part of him wants to never verbally acknowledge  _ that  _ ever in his entire life. It doesn’t matter either way because the weight on his chest makes it nearly impossible to speak. 

 

“I do not fully understand you,” Star says, eyes soft, “But I promised you that I would not betray you. I’m not sure what counts as telling your secret, but I am  _ trying _ .”

 

“I know, I know, I just have so many stupid hangups,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “We should probably get to the room.”

 

Star gives him a dark look, severe and shadowed, “Someone is looking at us.”

 

“Course they are,” Rictor groans, “You’re  _ you  _ and it looks like we’re having a fight in the middle of the sidewalk.”

 

Star doesn’t look too convinced but he heads towards the room anyway. Rictor can feel eyes on his back, too. They probably think they’re having a lover’s quarrel.  _ Which might not be too far off the mark _ , Rictor thinks, again getting that tight, twisted feeling in his chest,  _ Star seemed pretty serious about the boyfriend thing.  _

 

In the room, Star sets down his duffel bag; Rictor keeps his backpack with him, the plan is to find a library to check his intel, which means he’ll have to bring his existing intel along. Star’s a little bit wary about being away from his few possessions, but it seems to be something that’s getting better. It’s a slow process, like so many things.

 

Star pulls his hair back, carefully adjusting his twin braids so they fit comfortably in the loose ponytail. A while back, he claimed he did it to look more normal, but it does nothing to make him stick out less. Rictor’s not sure how much of the way he moves is confidence and how much is familiarity with being watched, but he definitely can see why people think Star’s famous. There’s a cruel irony in the fact that he  _ is. _

 

“We’ll find the library first, then we can get food,” Rictor says, “It’ll be good to actually walk around some, I think I’m starting to go stir crazy.”

 

“It would be nice to have something to do,” Star agrees.

 

* * *

The sunlight is warm against his face and it’s just windy enough to cool things off a bit without being too cold. It’s a nice town and if they had more time, he would probably stay here a while. Maybe not forever, because forever sounds like a thing he doesn’t deserve, but for a while. Right now, walking at Star’s side, it almost feels like they’re normal, just two people on a typical road trip that doesn’t involve getting shot at or running from motel to motel.

 

Star rarely moves his arms when he walks, but their hands are starting to brush against each other with increasing frequency, like he wants to take Rictor’s hand but isn’t sure how to go about it. Maybe, if he wasn’t so much of a coward, he’d take the initiative for once and grab Star’s hand. They’re probably never going to see any of these people again.

 

They find their way to the library before Rictor has a chance to talk himself into holding onto Star. It’s one of the biggest buildings they’ve come across, with a small courtyard set off to the side. As they step into the building, part of him wonders if this is even safe. Tons of people are bound to use these computers each day, it’ll be hard to figure out who exactly is looking for blueprints of his family’s warehouses, but the concern is still there. It’s too late to deliberate, so he takes a seat at the computer workstation furthest from the door. 

 

Star sits on the floor next to him, leaning against the side of Rictor’s chair, instead of actually taking a chair for himself. Rictor has a few sources he trusts, mostly ones he’s talked through encrypted throwaway emails. Computer stuff was really more of a hobby than something practically useful to begin with, but it’s helpful with what they’re doing now. If he really wanted to, he could probably ask Cable for some schematics, but he really doesn’t want to have to ask  _ Cable  _ for help.

 

Instead, he logs into one of his throwaway emails, types up a quick message to his first source asking for any updated blueprints, and encrypts it before sending. Then, he decides it’s worth checking up on what happened to the people from the warehouses they’ve already hit. He feels kind of bad about doing this, but it was really easy to figure out Val Cooper’s email password, and in turn, really easy to impersonate her in the name of getting updates about the Richter family. Turns out they were already on a few watchlists and impersonating an FBI agent gets you some perks.

 

The count is currently 47 arrests. None of the charges have stuck, not even the ones extradited to the US. At least 14 of them are out as free men. It’s discouraging. Their schedule is even more rushed because one of the 14 has definitely told his uncles that Julio Richter is back and dead-set on revenge. They were stupid to not wear masks. A note about two casualties catches his eye, probably the guys Star skewered at the last warehouse.

 

Rictor’s halfway through an email to his second source when Star tips his head back, leaning against Rictor’s thigh as he looks up at him.

 

Rictor tangles his fingers in Star’s hair, probably ruining his ponytail, “I know it’s boring. I have to get this all done now, we can’t afford to come back here a second time.”

 

His first source sends back a reply; the blueprints they have are the only ones the source can find. So, he’ll just have to anticipate that all of the warehouses have backup generators now. That’s okay, he can deal with that. The thing he can’t deal with is that the FBI doesn’t get enough information to tell them where his family’s going or if they’ve found their trail. 

 

It doesn’t take long for his second source to reply, confirming that the next shipment of guns is scheduled for early in the morning, the day after tomorrow. He was worried that they might’ve changed the schedule since the organization  _ has  _ to know something’s wrong by now.

 

Rictor does his best to erase their tracks, clearing out the browser history and the computer’s cache. He tries to be careful, but at the end of the day, this is still just a hobby he’s putting to practical use.

 

Afterwards, he taps Star on the shoulder, “Let’s go. I got all the information I could.”

 

Star stands up, almost looking relieved. When they get out to the street, Rictor nudges his side with his elbow.

 

“You can pick the place.”

 

Star’s the adventurous one when it comes to food; Rictor prefers the comfort of familiarity. He’ll try basically anything and Rictor’s pretty sure he’s seen Star bite into things that  _ aren’t  _ food before. It’s like he needs everything to be stronger, louder, brighter than it is for most people; the few times Rictor’s tried something of Star’s, it’s always too sweet or too salty or too bitter. 

 

Star chooses by virtue of how many people are in the restaurant. They end up tucked back in a small place with only a couple other patrons. Star’s weird about food, like  _ really  _ weird. He won’t eat unless it’s just the two of them, he won’t eat slowly, and he won’t eat unless Rictor tells him to. It’s a pretty bad combination since Rictor is  _ also  _ supremely shitty at knowing when to eat, but he does his best because Star’s metabolism seems to be way faster than his. In a roundabout way, he’s kind of getting better at taking care of himself.

 

The only way Rictor’s found to make Star slow down without fail, is to get him talking, and the most reliable way to get him talking is to bring up movies or TV. That brings on a passionate ferocity that’s almost enough to bring him out of his usual monotone. By the time their food comes out, the conversation is already heated.

 

“Look,” Rictor speaks around a mouthful of food, “I’m just saying that Alien’s a great movie and you can’t ignore what it did for the genre.”

 

“I am not saying it’s  _ not  _ a good movie,” Star looks annoyed, “I am just saying that I do not care for the depiction of the synthetics as something with a founded reason to distrust them.”

 

“Yeah, but Ash  _ actually  _ betrayed them. Besides, it was the company who told him that the crew was expendable.”

 

“And that company created the synthetics. It still depicts them as inherently untrustworthy.”

 

“Dude, you’re totally biased.”

 

Star shrugs, “I was created to perform a task with no choice in the matter.”

 

“You’re not like the synthetics at all,” Rictor groans, “Plus, Bishop was cool. He helped save everyone in Aliens.”

 

“Ripley still refused to trust him until he proved useful simply because he was a synthetic,” Star retorts.

 

“Well, I trust you. And I don’t think you’re gonna turn out to actually be working for some evil organization that doesn’t care if I die so long as they get a biological weapon.”

 

“I will hold to my opinion until we find a time that allows us to rent the third movie.”

 

“Sounds like a deal,” Rictor laughs.

 

* * *

They spend a bit more than they probably should’ve, but Rictor still has the money from the last warehouse and it’s nice to feel regular for once. It’s nice to forget about anything more pressing than Star’s seriously eclectic opinions about movies. Star gets some kind of ice cream monstrosity for desert and actually lets Rictor steal some of it. 

 

They end up back on the street after paying. The sun’s just starting to set and everything is bathed in shades of orange and pink. It’s not quite cold yet, just comfortably cool, the perfect kind of weather that makes it ache to go back indoors. They should probably rest up a bit before the inevitable raid on the warehouse tomorrow. It’s probably going to end up taking place when it’s still light out, it gets properly dark around midnight, the new shipment is coming in at 3am, and they can’t take on that many people at once.

 

He doesn’t want to worry about raids or missions or shipments of illegal guns at 3am, but that’s the shitty fucking hand life has dealt him, so he says, “Let’s get back to the motel.”

 

Star makes a noise of confirmation. Going back to the motel on a night like this doesn’t have the same sting for Star;  he doesn’t really  _ relax, _ just stays in close proximity to Rictor as he’s relaxing and acts like it’s the same thing. 

 

They hit a secluded patch of sidewalk, most of the storefronts along the way are already closed for the night and Rictor can only pick out a few drunk looking stragglers. The weather’s got him in an inordinately good mood, they’re basically alone, and he decides,  _ fuck it. We’re doing this and it’s too late to back out now. _

 

He can’t actually make his arm move the first time he tries to, but by the second attempt, he grabs Star’s hand in a frantic motion. If he’s fast enough, he won’t have time to talk himself out of it. Star squeezes back, lacing their fingers together. It’s a good situation, one that makes him feel whole and right and a weird mix of powerful and terrified. 

 

They’re holding hands. 

 

They’re holding hands outside, in public, and the world isn’t ending. 

 

Sure, the only people around are probably too drunk to notice, but it’s progress.

 

It doesn’t last long, by the time they slip under the soft glow of the next streetlight, he lets go. Star doesn’t complain, just looks over his shoulder at Rictor, who offers an apologetic look. It still is a really nice night, even if he can’t stop thinking about the possibility that someone  _ did  _ see them. 

 

The first hint of the motel they see is the vacancy sign, now switched onto NO VACANCY, a beacon among the swirling sunset. It’s the kind of thing Tabs would love and Rictor almost wishes he’d brought the camera, but Star seems set on keeping it with his things.

 

Star pauses at the edge of the parking lot, looking down at his hands as he says, “This was a good night. We should have been born into lives where nights like these are not the exception.”

 

“We managed to pull it off this time,” Rictor smiles, “I’m sure we can do it again.”

 

“I’d like that very much.”


	6. in which shit finally hits the fan and star has to learn to be tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my wonderful wonderful tumblr friend who hasn't read a single one of these comics but lets me rant at them drew me some fanart which you should [totally check out](https://vaguewhisperings.tumblr.com/post/173911768415/hi-i-did-this-and-now-im-the-only-one-in-my-class) because it's wonderful and i love it

Rictor unlocks the room. He makes it five steps in before there’s a flash of light. Eyes unaccustomed to the brightness after walking back in the low light of dusk, he throws his hands up reflexively.

 

Tastes blood in his mouth.

 

Realizes he’s on the floor.

 

Realizes he doesn’t  _ know  _ why he’s on the floor.

 

His ears are ringing, can’t stop his mind from wandering to the fact that this always seems so cliche in movies.

 

He sees Star. 

 

Two Stars.

 

Blurring together. Superimposed atop one another. Blood splatter on the twin faces.

 

“Star.” 

 

It sounds like his head’s underwater. 

 

He tries again.

 

“Star.”

 

Both Stars slip into one, murder in his eyes as he turns back towards Rictor.

 

“We have to go.” 

 

It’s so obvious, but it’s the only thing he can find to say.

 

He tries to sit up, but he can barely feel where his hands are and he’s still not sure why he’s on the ground. Sliding up against the wall makes his back ache, but he needs the support. 

 

“We have to  _ go, _ ” he hopes the repetition gets across the urgency, “Only got an hour before things start to actually hurt.”

 

An hour is a generous estimate, but it gets the point across. Star looks back at him again, gives a sharp nod, and grabs his duffel bag. Rictor stumbles to his feet, bracing one hand against the door. Star comes up behind him, lets him lean against him on the way to the truck.

 

Never in his entire life has he been more thankful that the main highway is completely flat with no curves in sight. It makes the fact that his vision occasionally blinks out much less dangerous. A terrible, constant ache is slowly creeping into his bones, but he’s determined to get as far away from the motel as possible. 

 

Rictor’s pretty sure that Star is talking to him, but he can’t actually comprehend any of the words. He’s still okay, he has to be, they have to get somewhere safe. His head lolls slightly, shocked back to alertness when Star jerks the wheel, hard.

 

Star gives him a dark look, white of his eyes gleaming, “Pull over.”

 

“Can’t,” Rictor mumbles, “Not yet.”

 

“Pull over.”

 

He sighs, driving off the edge of the road for a distance until he kills the engine. When he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the rear-view mirror, there’s a trickle of blood seeping from his hairline. Rictor can’t stop shaking, whole body cycling between hot and cold. He leans against the wheel, trying to steady himself.

 

“Fuck!”

 

Rictor pulls his arm back, looking down enough to see that it looks like  _ ground fucking beef _ . His vision blacks out again, washed over with a new intensity of pain. 

 

He’s  _ definitely  _ going to die. 

 

At least he didn’t kill himself. Tabs would be proud.

 

* * *

 

Sees flashes of blurred red. 

 

Star, hopefully. 

 

Still shaking too bad to move. 

 

Cool hands on his skin. 

 

Vision won’t straighten out. 

 

Still tastes blood in his mouth. 

 

Reaches out for anything.

 

* * *

 

He claws his way back to lucidity enough to wake up disoriented and completely unaware of where he is. 

 

He panics, lashing out before his surroundings come into focus. One of his arms hits against something, sending shockwaves of bone-deep pain radiating up into his shoulder. 

 

It’s bad enough that his vision whites out, frantic, desperate tears mixing with sweat. 

 

Star catches both his wrists in one fluid movement, stopping him from brushing up against anything else. It’s too little, too late. 

 

The raw, splitting ache in his arm is already enough to make him lose consciousness again.

 

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up, he feels slightly more clear headed. The fact that he’s going into cold sweats in the ninety degree heat can’t be a good sign, but at least he knows he’s in cab of his truck. There’s a constant low-level ache from his forearms, wrapped tight with soft green fabric. The process of sitting up is agonizingly slow, but he really doesn’t want to hit his arms against anything again.

 

There’s a low creak, followed by a flash of red as Star jumps down off the roof. 

 

Turning to look at Star is definitely too much effort, so he settles for calling out, “I liked that shirt.”

 

“I needed bandages,” Star opens the passenger side door, Rictor pulls up his legs to give him somewhere to sit.

 

“We  _ have  _ bandages.”

 

“They were too bloody to reuse,” Star whispers, looking the most scared Rictor’s ever seen him, “You would not stop bleeding.”

 

“Did you get all the shrapnel out?”

 

Star looks at him, head cocked to the side, “They are surface wounds, the shrapnel will be pushed out as you heal, yes?”

 

“No, fuck, no, you have to take it all out,” Rictor can barely breathe, he’s very carefully balancing on the verge of a panic attack, “I don’t heal like you, oh god, I’m only a little better than a baseline human.”

 

He can feel tears welling up in his eyes, fingers pulling frantically at the makeshift bandages, “Get it out, you have to get it all out, please, please, you can’t leave it in.”

 

Star stills his hands, carefully unwrapping the strips of fabric as Rictor deliberately looks away, trying to stop himself from hyperventilating. His curiosity wins out and he looks back. The only good thing is that his arms look much less like ground beef than before, at least from what he remembers of before. 

 

He vaguely remembers the smell of burnt flesh and that coupled with the fact that he can’t stop thinking about it in terms of ground beef means it’s probably gonna be weeks before he can eat meat again. At least the fact that they hurt so much means they probably aren’t third degree burns and that he probably doesn’t have too much nerve damage.

 

“I removed the largest pieces after you were unconscious,” Star’s voice is soft and even, “There was just so much.”

 

Rictor grits his teeth as Star catches a piece of what looks like metal with the tweezers. He pulls it loose, leaving behind slightly rawer flesh than the rest of the raw flesh around it. Rictor sees spots again, fingers going numb.

 

“It’s okay if you scream,” Star says, “No one can hear us.”

 

“I’m fine,” Rictor hisses, sweat dripping into his eyes.

 

Star works over his arms, pulling out thirteen more shards of miscellaneous metals.

 

“There’s antibacterial cream in the first aid kit,” Rictor’s throat feels raw, “Think it’s already infected but better safe than sorry.”

 

Star nods, pulling out the tube. His touch is light as he rubs it against the burns on the outer part of Rictor’s forearms, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting. When Star rewraps it, the fabric against the cream feels thick and sticky. 

 

He wants nothing more than to sleep for a week, but they probably need to move. They’re so exposed just parked on the side of the road. Opening his eyes again, he finds Star looking down at him, hands still looped around Rictor’s wrists.

 

“You’ve got freckles now,” he mumbles, “It’s cute.”

 

_ Shit. His arms are definitely infected, he’s totally delirious. _

 

“You were asleep for four days. Plenty of time for sunlight.”

 

“Fuck. That long?”

 

Star nods, “I made sure you drank water, but you were unable to eat.”

 

“We definitely need to get moving, then.”

 

“Are you okay?” Star’s fingers brush against his shoulder.

 

“Okay doesn’t factor into things right now.”

 

The look on Star’s face tells him he knows exactly what Rictor means.

 

* * *

 

Rictor’s stable enough to drive, his head aches and he still feels way too cold, but he isn’t on the verge of passing out. Four days is plenty of time to realize that there weren’t any bodies at the site of the explosion. They probably need to go farther than just the next town over but it’s all he can manage and he really wants to sleep in an actual bed.

 

Star pays for the room, leaving Rictor in the truck. He really went above and beyond by grabbing their money in the midst of all that chaos. After getting the key, Star grabs both of their bags; Rictor can’t even imagine trying to pull on his backpack, so he’s quietly thankful. 

 

Inside the room, Star sets everything down before heading back for the door.

 

“Please don’t leave me,” Rictor’s voice cracks, he hates how pathetic he sounds but he can’t stop himself, “Please, Star, don’t leave me alone.”

 

“I am going to get more bandages and food. It will not take long.”

 

Against the cool evenness of Star, his desperation sounds all the more disgusting, so he stops protesting. If his family knew where they were, they would’ve killed them both out in the desert. That wasn’t a warning, it was an assassination attempt. They’re just both too stubborn to die. He’s safe, for now. He’ll be safe until Star comes back.

 

He stumbles into the bathroom because at least that has a door that locks, a halfway decent hiding place. When he catches his reflection in the mirror, it’s evident that he looks terrible. There’s still blood in his hair, little smears of it across his forehead. Eyes sunken, rimmed in dark circles despite the fact he was asleep for four days. He wants to shower, but that feels like an insurmountable task. 

 

“Julio?” 

 

He blinks, realizing that he’s lying slumped up against the bathroom wall now. That’s probably not good. He stands up, opening the door to face Star; he doesn’t have to know that Rictor just blacked out for a bit. 

 

“Kinda want to shower, but, y’know,” he gestures to the bandages on his arms.

 

Star drops his hands to Rictor’s waist, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt. Rictor holds his breath, trying to will himself to not start shaking; this is not the way he thought  _ this  _ course of events would go. 

 

He gives in, exhaling as he extends his arms to make it easier for Star to pull his shirt off. Rictor peers over his shoulder at his reflection, haunted ashy face framed by blood-crusted hair and deep purple bruises across his back. He looks like he’s dead, feels like it too.

 

He kicks his way out of his jeans without help from Star; the idea of being naked in front of him is still sort of terrifying, but he really, really wants to feel clean. Star begins to unwrap the bandages, it takes everything in Rictor’s power not to pull away because of how close they are. The fact that Star’s still dressed just makes him feel terrible and useless and vulnerable, but the idea of Star  _ also  _ being naked is almost more terrifying.

 

Star turns on the water, nudging Rictor towards the shower. The water isn’t even hot, but it still stings like a motherfucker when it comes into contact with his arms. He turns it even colder, hoping that the cool water will make it hurt less. Star pushes back the glass door, letting water splatter out onto the tile floor.

 

“I will wash your hair.”

 

It’s not an offer, it’s a command, but Rictor doesn’t protest. The idea of hair brushing against his burns makes his skin crawl anyway. Star works his hands through Rictor’s hair, he’s pretty sure Star must be getting drenched, but he doesn’t bring it up. Rictor keeps his eyes trained on his feet, watching the thin red-tinged water against the white tile as it gets pushed away by suds. 

 

“I am going to wash your burns.”

 

Rictor makes a low, whining noise; Star places a cool hand against one of the few spots on his back that isn’t bruised.

 

“You are delicate, your wounds are likely not self cleaning. You get sick so easily.”

 

He very carefully turns Rictor to face him, taking the wrist of one of Rictor’s arms with one hand. When Star rubs the soapy washcloth against his arm, he tries to pull it back with no success.

 

“Fuck, that  _ hurts _ .”

 

Star doesn’t let go, doesn’t even seem phased by Rictor’s struggling. He continues to rub at the burn before moving onto the second one. Rictor holds both arms under the cold water until the soap-sting feeling is gone. Then, he shuts the shower off. Standing up for so long has left him even more tired than before and he really doesn’t want to black out again in front of Star. 

 

Rictor’s legs carry him two steps before he collapses against Star in a way that makes him hate himself. Star doesn’t make a comment, but the possibilities of what he might be thinking makes Rictor’s stomach turn.

 

He stands Rictor up, steadying him before grabbing a towel. Then, Star dries his hair. He takes the towel from Star, wrapping it around his waist; he’s still soaking wet but the idea of Star actually  _ drying him  _ is too much for him to handle today. 

 

Rictor manages to walk out into the room. He pulls on a pair of boxers and makes it halfway through putting a shirt on before realizing that rubbing the burns against the sleeve of a shirt feels like knives in his skin. He takes a seat on the bed, sighing in resignation.

 

“Can you come bandage me up?”

 

Star nods, sitting next to him as he rubs more of the antibacterial cream into the wounds. Then, he carefully wraps the new, clean bandages against his skin. Rictor lays down, not bothering to try putting on a shirt again. The only comfortable pose he can find is on his back, arms crossed over his chest so the untouched inner part of his arms is the one that’s pressed up against him. He’s asleep before he even realizes it.

 

* * *

 

It’s just starting to get light outside when he wakes up next. Star’s sitting on the floor with his back against the wall next to the bed, both swords in hand.

 

“What happened?” Rictor sits up as best he can, the ache in his arms is a bit more tolerable now, “I mean,  _ obviously  _ I got burnt but what happened?”

 

“There was an explosion. It was operated by a pressure sensor, from what I could see,” Star looks over to him, “We are still in danger, I looked through the entire room but no one was present.”

 

“Fuck,” Rictor whispers, “All that blood on your face, it was yours?”

 

“You have an innate reflex to protect yourself. I do not. I understand why now,” Star worries his lip, watching Rictor closely, “When will you be fully healed?”

 

“Shit, dude, this is easily gonna take a month. More if it gets infected. It’s my entire forearm.”

 

“A month?,” Star furrows his brows, “An entire month?”

 

“Yeah,” Rictor tips his head back, laughing at how bad things are going to suck for the foreseeable future, “And I appreciate you taking care of me, but these burns are probably gonna scar up  _ wonderfully  _ because you’re kinda shit at early intervention wound care.”

 

Looking at Star is absolutely heartbreaking, face scored with pain and confusion. Rictor reaches out, running a hand through Star’s hair.

 

“It’s okay, it’s like you said. I’m delicate, I heal slowly and it hurts the entire time. You’re practically indestructible. You did fine.”

 

“We should move again,” Star says, leaning into Rictor’s touch, “It is not safe to stay more than one night in one place.”

 

Rictor’s solid enough to drive, aside from the occasionally blacking out thing, but there’s no evidence to suggest it’s going to happen again now that he’s slept. It’s clear that Star is used to running, which is good because right now, Rictor really needs someone to stop him from sleeping for multiple days at once. 

 

Shit. He’s probably concussed too. Which could explain the blackouts.

 

“Yeah,” he says, swinging his legs off the bed, “Give me a sec, I have to eat something first.”

 

Star stands up in front of him, very carefully pressing his hands against Rictor’s cheek. He’s never been more thankful for how cold Star’s hands are, it feels like the first moment of clarity he’s had in a while. He puts his hands on Star’s hips, pulling him closer isn’t worth the pain currently.

 

Star leans down and kisses him, pulling back a second later, “You are unusually warm today.”

 

“Yeah, I can’t guarantee my burn isn’t already infected. Which might be a problem later on down the line. But I’m good right now, I can do this, I promise.”

 

Star breaks away, bringing over Rictor’s backpack. He ends up eating his way through the majority of what’s left of their food. They can buy more later, he just needs some fucking calories in his body. Maybe that’ll help him feel more alive.

 

* * *

 

“Full disclosure,” Rictor says, once they’ve passed the town limits, “I  _ have  _ been blacking out. But it’s okay. And before you ask, no, I’m not letting you drive. This is still a really bad time to try to teach you to drive.”

 

Star gives him a dark glare from the passenger side, one that says there won’t be any kind of a choice if Rictor ends up blacking out while driving. 

 

“Really, I’m fine, it was probably just because of not eating for four days while I was unconscious and what might be a concussion and I should  _ probably  _ be in a hospital instead of driving,” Rictor laughs, almost frantic, “But I’m not gonna think about that right now.”

 

Star still doesn’t speak, but he looks concerned. Concerned and unconvinced. This is a weird side of Star, weird side of himself, like they’ve swapped roles. He’s the one running on reckless abandon and adrenaline, disregarding himself or any kind of limits, while Star plays the part of gentleness, of worry, instead of warrior.

 

He hovers close to Rictor, sitting more in the middle of the bucket seat than on his own side; the look on Star’s face when he pulled the wheel is one of the clearest images Rictor has of that night. The only reason he’s still taking the back roads is because there are less people around, less potential accidents; they’ve already been found once, despite all their best efforts.

 

He drives all the way through the next town they come to, hoping it’ll buy them a head start. It’s almost 2 in the morning when they reach another one, but at least one shitty motel seems to be open that late. Or that early. 

 

Star pays again, Rictor still doesn’t look great and someone in his condition is probably more memorable than Star, which is really saying something. Star tosses him the keys, letting him go ahead and get in the room first. He’s already kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the bed by the time Star gets inside with their bags and the case with his swords. 

 

“I need them close,” Star whispers, the answer to an unspoken question.

 

Right now, the realization that if he’s very careful, he can lay on his side is one of the best things that’s ever happened to Rictor. He shifts until he’s not laying on the bruises on his back or on his burns, and looks towards Star, crouched by the case as he worries over his swords.

 

“When’s the last time you slept?”

 

Star doesn’t answer, just takes his seat next to the bed, blades catching thin strips of moonlight.

 

“C’mon, when’s the last time you slept?”

 

Star answers methodically, “Not since the day of the attack.”

 

“Star…”

 

“I am not like  _ you,”  _ he growls, “I do not  _ have  _ to sleep.”

 

Rictor yawns, almost ready to surrender just because he’s so exhausted, “Come lay down with me.”

 

“I  _ cannot _ ,” Star’s accent is creeping back into his voice, choking his words, “This was an action of  _ punishment.  _ I have become slow and weak and I  _ allowed  _ it to happen. Now you are injured because I was not prepared.”

 

“Staying awake for six days isn’t gonna help you be ready for next time,” Rictor keeps his voice as soft as he can.

 

“I do not _deserve_ to sleep. It was my mistake, my fault.”

 

Part of him wants to tell Star that of course he deserves to sleep, but that’s not something Star seems willing or able to accept. He’s selfless in the most literal sense of the word, convinced he’s only worth his use to others.

 

“Star,” he settles on a course of action, “Right now, I really don’t care if someone comes in here and shoots me. It’d put me out of my misery. I feel like shit and I want you to come here and lay down with me.”

 

Star surrenders, laying his swords back in their case before climbing up onto the bed. Rictor turns around until they’re facing; his arms still hurt, but they hurt less than before. Star wraps one arm around his waist, weighted and protective.

 

* * *

  
  


Rictor jerks back, half of a scream dying in his throat when his arm makes contact with the bedside table. It’s a terrible, mind-numbing pain, like an ice pick to the brain. Star shoots upright, eyes frantic, knife in hand. It feels like he’s crying from the pain of hitting his arm against something solid, but he’s not too sure if he is.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” it definitely sounds like he’s crying, mouth thick with sleep, “It’s okay, I’m okay, I’m just being stupid and pathetic, no one’s here, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

Star’s shoulders drop as he relaxes; he tucks the knife back under the pillow without taking his eyes off of Rictor.

 

“I don’t wanna die,” he manages, between big, shaking sobs, “I don’t wanna die anymore. I wanted to for a while but I don’t wanna lose you now.”

 

Star smooths back his hair, keeps his touch light, “You were dreaming, yes?”

 

Rictor nods, hoping it’s evident despite how much he’s shaking. 

 

“I do not dream often,” Star says, placing his palm against Rictor’s cheek, “The few times I do, they are always haunted.”

 

“This hasn’t happened since I was a kid,” Rictor chokes out, “I’m sorry, I should be over it by now.”

 

It’s the same dream, over and over again. He’s staring down the cold void of a barrel of a gun, body jerking back as the trigger is pulled, like he has a chance of getting away in that close of a range. It hasn’t happened in years, but the memory is still raw.

 

Star brushes away Rictor’s tears with his thumbs, delicate and dedicated, a fluid movement like he’s becoming more comfortable with this.

 

“Do not apologize,” Star whispers, “We are both haunted.”

 

Rictor nods, swallowing hard before laying back down. Star lays partially on top of him, curled around him protectively as he presses his forehead against Rictor’s neck. Rictor rests the uninjured sides of his arms against Star’s back, not pushing hard. Star can definitely feel how fast his heart’s beating, how labored his breathing is.

 

He settles for playing with Star’s hair, hoping that having something to do with his hands will help him calm down. He feels Star’s breath hitch when he first runs his fingers through it, feels Star’s breathing even out into a low hum against his skin. By the time Rictor’s own breathing is back to normal, he can barely keep his eyes open.


	7. in which intimacy is terrifying, star tries to drive, and they make plans for the future

For the first time Rictor can remember, Star is still sleeping quietly against him when he wakes. It’s such a peaceful moment, so perfect that he almost doesn’t care that everything about him hurts. Star’s so close to him, a comforting weight that’s not too heavy. He revels in the moment as long as he can stand, before he shifts the little bit required to press a kiss to the top of Star’s head.

 

It’s stupidly sappy and Star’s definitely getting to him with the ‘romantic tropes’ thing, but it feels like the right thing to do. It feels  _ normal _ , going to sleep together, waking up together, so long as you forget about the nightmare in the middle and the burns on his arms.

 

Star stirs, looking up at him with a slow, drawn out blink. He almost looks  _ sleepy  _ which sounds like the antithesis of everything Star is.

 

“Morning,” he smiles down at Star.

 

All he gets in response is a contented hum, they’re still close enough that he can feel it in his chest.

 

“Feeling better?”

 

“I am not sure what I am feeling.”

 

“Well… This is really nice, I feel good. And safe,” Rictor says, trying to nudge Star into saying something more.

 

“I should not have slept,” Star worries his lip, “That was bad. Not allowed.”

 

Rictor tangles his fingers in Star’s hair, “You’re allowed to sleep. I’m telling you that right now. You’re allowed to sleep whenever you need to, no matter what, no take backs, the offer is good forever.”

 

“That is not something you can do.”

 

“Sure I can,” Rictor taps the top of Star’s head, “Bam! You’re allowed to sleep now.”

 

He wants to stay there longer but his arms are starting to itch almost unbearably, which only makes him want to unwrap the bandages and see exactly how bad the situation is. 

 

“I’m gonna get up,” he says, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

 

Star sits up, letting Rictor get out from under him before lying back down. In the cramped bathroom, he peels off his shirt first. It’s awkward to twist around, but the bruises on his back are starting to look more green than purple which is better than nothing. The dark circles around his eyes are lighter and he looks more like himself, less ashy and ghost-like.

 

He unwraps the bandages next. The skin of his forearms isn’t nearly as shiny, faded from an angry red to more of an angry pink. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that he wasn’t awake for any of the blisters that usually come with a burn this bad, which is a small victory but he'll take it. There are a couple of shrapnel cuts that are still open, leaving behind little spots of blood on the bandage. If they  don’t close up in another day, he’ll get Star to stitch them shut. 

 

A shower is too much right now, so he turns on the sink, letting the water run cold before sticking his arms under it. Star slips into the bathroom, watching quietly with his back to the wall. Rictor stands up, carefully patting his arms dry with a towel he can only hope is clean. Star steps up behind him, pausing for a few seconds before he leans down to kiss Rictor’s shoulder.

 

“Hey,” Rictor smiles, hoping Star can see it in the mirror.

 

Star shifts until he’s pressing his cheek against Rictor’s skin, avoiding the worst of the bruises. Rictor rolls his shoulders, nudging Star off so he can turn around. With his back to the counter and Star in front of him, he’s never been more terrified. Star isn’t pressing up against him; there’s the unspoken knowledge that he can always  _ leave, _ but he doesn’t want to.

 

Star cups his cheeks, tipping his head up to make it easier to kiss him. Rictor kisses back, almost desperately, like he can cling to this moment. It’s as achingly close to domestic as they’re probably ever going to get. Star breaks away, still close enough that Rictor can feel his breath. His hands fall to Rictor’s hips, lifting him up onto the counter before stepping closer.

 

He angles his head, pressing an awkward kiss to Rictor’s neck.

 

“Star,” Rictor whispers.

 

He works his way down to Rictor’s collarbone.

 

“Star,” Rictor puts his hands on Star’s shoulders, pushing lightly, “Star,  _ stop _ .”

 

Star recoils, looking  _ scared _ . Rictor covers his face with his hands, trying to steady his breathing. On the list of reasons why he’s pathetic, ‘panicking because the most beautiful guy he’s ever known is kissing him’ has easily taken first place.

 

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this, I can’t, god, I’m sorry,” he curls in on himself, not quite enough to rub his burns against his legs, “I’m so sorry, I wish I could, I can’t, I can’t, Star, I’m sorry.”

 

There’s a painful stretch of silence that almost makes him wish he was still unconscious.

 

“I…” Star finally speaks, “I thought this was the point.”

 

“Fuck, maybe,” Rictor looks at Star from between his fingers, “But, I just. I can’t do this.”

 

Star reaches out, hand hovering close enough to Rictor’s skin that he’s aware of it without actually making contact, “I want to make you happy. I want to be  _ good. _ ”

 

“That’s a terrible reason to do this.” 

 

Star gives him a blank look, giving Rictor a cold comfort in the knowledge that he’s not the most fucked up guy in the room.

 

“Do it ‘cos you want to, not ‘cos you feel like you have to,” Rictor puts his hands back on Star’s shoulders, pulling him closer with a shaky smile, “I  _ like  _ being close to you. That was just way, way too much.”

 

Star doesn’t look directly at him as he whispers, “This looked to be a requirement.”

 

“Life isn’t TV, dude.”

 

“I  _ know  _ that. I have nothing  _ better  _ to reference.”

 

“Then you know that things are way more complicated in reality. On TV, everyone knows what everyone else is comfortable with because it’s all written like that. We don’t have a script to follow so we just have to stumble around until it feels right. That felt wrong.”

 

“Yes,” Star nods, “It did.”

 

“Star,” Rictor brings his hands up to Star’s hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, “We have to do something. We can’t just keep running.”

 

“We could leave. We have left before.”

 

“They’d still be looking for us, for the rest of our lives. Trying to blow someone up is a special kind of pissed, trust me.”

 

Star carefully loops his arms around Rictor’s waist, “You are still hurt.”

 

“We can’t afford to wait until I’m fully healed. A month is too much time for things to go wrong.”

 

Star lifts him up again, pulling him in tight all while making a noise of agreement. Rictor lets his arms go slack, wraps his legs around Star’s waist.

 

“When my arms aren’t so fucked up, I’m gonna pick you up. Just you wait. You weigh basically nothing.”

 

Star makes a sound that definitely, definitely counts as a laugh coming from him, “I look forward to it.”

 

Star sets him down on the bed, Rictor manages to trap him there just long enough to give him a quick kiss. Then, Star breaks off, starting to check all of their possessions.

 

“You should go shower,” Rictor says, “If you want to.”

 

Star looks back at him, wary and uncertain.

 

Rictor groans, “I’m hurt, but I still have my powers. I can take care of myself for ten minutes.”

 

There’s a drawn out period of deliberation before Star stands up, new set of clothes in hand. Once he’s gone into the bathroom, Rictor gets up, digging through their clothes in search of a reasonably clean shirt. They definitely need to go to a laundromat. And some real food sounds incredible right now.

 

He pulls on the shirt, wandering over to the open door of the bathroom, “We can probably get something to eat after we check out, it should be okay. And we have to wash our clothes, everything’s  either dirty or bloodstained or both.”

 

Rictor rewraps his bandages; at this point they’re probably unnecessary, the only open wounds are the shrapnel cuts, but the idea of getting a sunburn on top of pre-existing burns sounds like a fate worse than death. Then, he starts packing everything up so they can leave as soon as Star’s done.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They end up going to the laundromat first. They could be in a restaurant somewhere eating while their clothes are being washed, but Star’s reluctant to let anything they own out of his sight. Rictor’s inclined to call that fear reasonable. Star brings the swords in with both of their bags.

 

The constant quiet roar of washing machines and dryers is enough to make Rictor tired all over again and he ends up leaning against Star, face pressed into his damp hair. Star nudges him when the clothes are dry. Rictor slowly starts to fold them, passing them to Star, who works on fitting them into the duffel bag. 

 

Carrying his own backpack is finally tolerable, so he does. Star still brings the duffel bag and the sword case into the restaurant they settle on, keeping the case tucked carefully by his side.

 

Hot food sounded incredible in theory, but in practice, he can barely eat any of it. His appetite still hasn't come back. Star eats quickly, in that desperate methodical way he did when they first met. Rictor tries for a couple more mouthfuls before sliding his plate over to Star. Star looks at him, eyes narrowed and uncertain.

 

“Really, I’m good. Just not hungry.”

 

Star accepts the plate, finishing the rest of Rictor’s food quickly. 

 

When he pays, he realizes that they’re running low on money. It’s not quite dire yet, but they have to be careful; it was only dumb luck that they ended up with enough money to fund all of  _ this  _ and calling Cable and Domino to beg sounds nightmarish. 

 

“We’re gonna have to cool it with the motels,” Rictor says, watching Star tuck the case back behind their seats, “It’s risky, but it’s more risky to be broke.”

 

“Everywhere is equally dangerous. There are potential threats everywhere.”

 

Star says it easily, like it’s a basic fact of life, a given that Rictor should know. Maybe that’s true now, but it’s not something he wants to become their normal. They have to make a move, soon. It’s not living to just keep running.

 

Rictor keeps watch for a lull in the already sparse traffic running parallel to them. Even at the height of the day, there still aren’t many people on these back roads. Once the road is finally empty, he stalls the engine. This is as good a spot as any, no curves for the next couple of miles and relatively flat. He trusts Star with his life, but not much else. Star will take apart anything if he gets bored enough and refuses to assign sentimental value to anything, which is how you end up with a transdimensional radio and your favorite shirt turned into bandages.

 

“You really wanna try driving?” Rictor asks, already regretting this.

 

“It would be useful.”

 

Rictor gets out, motioning for Star to take his place on the driver’s side. He gets in the passenger side, giving Star a serious look.

 

“Don’t crash my truck. If you crash my truck when it’s completely flat and there are no obstacles in sight, I’ll be impressed, but I’ll also be pissed.”

 

Star rolls his eyes, “It will not be hard to drive.”

 

“Yeah, out here where there’s no street signs or curves or pedestrians or angry drivers.”

 

Star looks unconvinced; Rictor bites back a comment about how he’s awfully cocky for someone who can barely read a clock, much less a map. It’s a terrible idea to give Star something to prove, that just makes him utterly relentless.

 

“Accelerator’s on the right, brake’s next to it, don’t worry about the clutch. Don’t crash my fucking truck, I swear to god.”

 

Star guns it, slamming the accelerator to the floor. 

 

It’s about what Rictor was expecting when he agreed to let him drive. They’re probably going faster than the truck can handle, but this was his dumb idea so he’s going to suck it up and deal with it. Star’s got a wild look in his eyes, wind pulling his hair back as he grins. Rictor leans towards the window, resting his arm against the door frame as he threads his fingers through the air.

 

Teeth bared, Star growls out loud enough to be heard over the wind, “ _ I am the Nightrider, I’m a fuel injected suicide machine! I am a rocker, I am a roller, I am an out of controller!” _

 

He might just be getting caught up in the energy of the situation, but Star screaming Mad Max quotes into the wind while pushing 95 miles per hour might be the most normal thing both of them have done in years. Rictor gives into the moment, leaning all the way out the window. He cups both hands around his mouth and screams, wordlessly and as loud as he can.

 

It feels good. It feels downright fucking cathartic.

 

Rictor ducks back in just as Star hits the first curve. Star goes around it too fast, too tight, but nobody’s around and Star looks absolutely ecstatic.

 

“Calm down there, Max,” Rictor laughs, shouting it to make sure Star hears.

 

“I was not quoting  _ Max. _ ”

 

“Yeah, but you’re fuckin’ driving like him.”

 

Star pulls another wide turn, veering into the other lane without slowing down at all.

 

“We’re getting close to another town, we should probably swap back,” Rictor shouts.

 

Star makes a low, rumbling noise that can only mean he’s solidly against that decision.

 

“C’mon, I don’t wanna get pulled over while you’re driving. Do you know how hard it’ll be to explain that you don’t have a birth certificate, much less a driver’s license?”

 

“Obviously, I am alive,” Star says, “I see no need for a paper confirming it.”

 

“It’s also hard to do basically anything if nobody knows you legally exist. I don’t think you  _ can  _ get a driver’s license without a social security number.”

 

Star sighs, something he draws out for emphasis, “I suppose I  _ could  _ stop driving.”

 

He jams on the brakes, sending both of them lurching forward. Star regains his composure, undoing the seat belt as he leaves the car running.

 

Star wrinkles his nose, stepping from the truck, “Your braking system leaves much to be desired.”

 

“That was  _ literally  _ all you, dude,” Rictor slides over, taking the space previously occupied by Star, “I can brake just fine.”

 

Star slams the passenger side door after getting in, it’s almost endearing to see him getting so up in arms about something. Just as long as it doesn't throw Star off his game, it's kind of cute.

 

“Hey,” Rictor says, elbowing Star once he starts driving again, “I’ll let you drive again some other time.”

 

* * *

 

It only takes another 15 minutes to reach the next town. They’re ahead of schedule, Star going easily 100 miles per hour for part of the trip is the most obvious explanation for that. Rictor takes a moment of careful contemplation before parking outside of a grocery store.

 

He kills the engine, “We need more food, stuff that’ll last. Then we need to find somewhere we can hole up and plan. We have to get the ball back in our court.”

 

Star nods, turning so he can kneel on the seat and get the case with his swords.

 

“Don’t bring them along, dude, I know you’re worried but it just looks suspicious.”

 

“I am not  _ worried.  _ I am being  _ careful. _ ”

 

“You’re totally worried,” Rictor gives him a half smile, hoping it’s reassuring, “You checked them, like, every five minutes while we were eating. And at the laundromat.”

 

“I did  _ not. _ ”

 

“Whatever, dude,” he sighs, tucking his hair back behind his ears, “Look, I can’t promise they’ll still be here when we get back, because they might not be, but if they’re gone, I’ll help you track down whoever took them and kick their ass. Is that a deal?”

 

“That is… Acceptable,” Star wrinkles his nose, turning back around. 

 

“Good,” Rictor pauses, tangling his fingers in Star’s hair for a fraction of a second before opening the door and getting out. 

 

Star is potentially the worst person ever to go grocery shopping with. Something about the combination of fluorescent lights and lots of people seems to make him even more on edge than he usually is. Still, Rictor doesn’t want to make him stay in the truck. It’s definitely wishful thinking, but the idea of practicing doing normal things like this with Star is one hell of an enticing thought.

 

“Stick with me, okay? Don't run off anywhere.”

 

Star nods, hanging a few steps behind Rictor. Everything hurts, he's exhausted, and the risk is well worth it, so he turns back and grabs Star’s hand. To keep him close and definitely not for any selfish reasons. 

 

What they really need are some cheap, high protein non-perishables. Especially if they’re going to take a break from motels, protein bars cost too much and get disgustingly melty without A/C for  prolonged periods of time. Rictor gets some more dried fruit and beef jerky, as well as some nuts and granola and a couple gallons of water. As a compromise, he lets Star pick out some nightmarishly sugary cereal that’s evidently geared towards children.

 

They can’t have been in there for more than half an hour, but the first thing Star does once they get back to the truck is pull out the case. He rests it on his lap, opening it to check over his swords. He even goes so far as taking one out, lifting it to test the balance despite the fact they’re in a public parking lot. Once he’s satisfied that they’re both fine, he locks the case and tucks it back behind the seats.

 

“We should move on,” Star settles back into the seat, “I counted at least 34 people who saw us. It is safer to find somewhere once it is dark outside.”

 

Deep down, Rictor knows he’s right, but he settles on smirking, “You just want to drive again.”

 

Star frowns, “That is not the  _ only  _ reason. It is the safest course of action to leave.”

 

“I know, I’m just messing with you. You probably won’t get to drive until we can afford to waste gas, though. Money’s tight and you used, like, a quarter of a tank earlier.”

 

Before leaving the town, Rictor stops to top up the tank. They still have a little over half a tank left, but they’re fucked if they end up stranded. They’d definitely be too exposed, too vulnerable. Nobody would notice if someone came by and just picked them off.

 

He checks the map after paying for the gas. They’re definitely going to spend the night sleeping in the truck, the route he’s been taking stretches on without any other sign of civilization in sight. He’s paranoid, but there hasn’t been any sign that they’ve been found yet and it should probably be okay for one night.

 

* * *

 

Star spends the majority of the ride sulking; he’s the epitome of an adrenaline junkie and Rictor’s probably ruined him forever by just letting him go wild like that. It’ll be a miracle if Star can ever drive in a way that’s remotely legal. The way Rictor’s driving now feels boring in comparison and it must be ten times worse for Star. 

 

He slows to a crawl in an isolated looking area. It’s in the dip of a small valley, nestled between weathered columns of rock on either side of the road. There’s a clear view of both roads going in and out and it doesn’t seem like that bad of a place to hole up in, at least for a while. Rictor turns off the road, tucking the truck back behind one of the rock formations. 

 

He kills the engine, jumping down to walk back to the road. There are tire tracks leading right to them, but he can’t see the truck from the road and the wind should take care of the trail. When he gets back to the truck, Star’s sitting in the bed, carefully sharpening his swords. 

 

Rictor takes a seat next to him, “We’re gonna have to strike fast and strike hard. I’m not sure  _ how  _ we’ll do it, but we need to catch them off guard.”

 

“You are aware that we will likely have to break your ‘not killing anyone’ rule, yes?”

 

Rictor sighs, “Yeah. I shouldn’t feel bad about it, ‘cos my family  _ did  _ give the go ahead to kill me, but I don’t like it.”

 

“Killing those following us is the only way to ensure they will not try to kill you again.”

 

“After we  _ take care of this _ ,” Rictor winces at the implication, “We need to go the source. As long as someone’s in charge, they’re gonna keep sending people to try to kill us. It was stupid to think we could just take out a warehouse at a time and it’d all be fine.”

 

“Sometimes,” Star looks solemn, “You must weaken what you can. It is still action, regardless.”

 

“This all just feels so pointless now.”

 

Star sets his swords aside, leaning forward to press his hand against Rictor’s cheek, “it is pointless. It will only create a vacuum to be filled by someone equally bad. But it is important to you, so I will see it through.”

 

“You’re terrible at comforting people,” Rictor gives a half-hearted laugh.

 

He covers Star’s hand with his own, leaning into it with his eyes closed, “You know Cable was never gonna help you get back to your own timeline, right?”

 

“I did not want him to,” Star whispers, “I am selfish, I want more than I am worth.”

 

“Not wanting to die in some fucked up MTV hell dimension isn’t being selfish.”

 

“The Cadre Alliance lied to me,” Star’s words are laced with a cold fury, “I was told that I would be free, but I was still given orders, still following a script. I was turned from one kind of propaganda to another. I could not tell another assigned role from actual freedom.”

 

“You’re free now,” Rictor eases Star’s hand away from his cheek, holding it tight, “There’s nothing keeping you anywhere, it’s all your choice.”

 

“That is why I am still here. I chose this mission, I chose to accompany you.”

 

“When we’re done with this, you can leave. You don't have to stay, you can do what you want.”

 

Star pauses, worrying his lip as he thinks, “I want to finish my mission. As myself. Not a pawn.”

 

“I’d offer to come along but I don't think I'd stand a chance,” Rictor laughs, squeezing Star’s hand again.

 

“I would protect you, if you came with me.”

 

Rictor raises an eyebrow, “I wouldn't hold you back?”

 

“You  _ would _ hold me back. I accept that fact.”

 

It's such an asshole-ish thing to say by the standards of basically any regular person, but Star says it so gently, looking at him with soft eyes. There's no doubt that he didn't mean it maliciously, and he's probably right. Rictor’s good against a baseline human, even against a good majority of mutants, but he’s nowhere in Star’s caliber.

 

Rictor laughs, “Yeah, I guess I'll come back to your timeline if we ever get the chance to do some dimension hopping. Could be fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my pal nico drew me some excellent fanart for this fic and if you like what you see, y'all should go [commission](https://vaguewhisperings.tumblr.com/post/174086442955/commissions) them because they're lovely  
>   
> 


	8. in which confrontations don’t work out nearly as well as they do on tv

“Julio.”

 

Rictor blinks himself awake, it’s too dark to make out much other than the grainy boundary of the truck door. That’s right. They’re in his truck. Everything looks unfamiliar when they’re constantly moving.

 

“Julio,” Star’s hanging upside down off the top of the truck, leaning in the open window across from Rictor.

 

He scrubs at his eyes, “Wha--”

 

“There are four hummers, at least seven men surrounding us. I assume they have not noticed me as I have not been shot.”

 

“What the fuck,” Rictor mumbles, trying to process what Star’s saying.

 

“I said, there are four hummers, at least seven men--”

 

“I heard that,” Rictor hisses, “Doesn’t mean it makes sense. How’d they find us?”

 

“I do not know. I need a distraction so I can move without being seen. I need my swords.”

 

Rictor sits up, kneading the palms of his hands against his eyes. He’s suddenly glad that he had the sense to sleep with his boots on. He rolls his neck, trying to work out the crick in it as he tries to work up the nerve to do what he’s planning. He’s about to do something really, really stupid, a decision he only hopes he can live to regret. He opens the door, jumping out of the truck, hopefully in the direction of where everyone is because his night vision is abysmal.

 

 

He cups his hands around his mouth, < _ YOU WANNA KILL ME? I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU FUCKIN’ TRY. _ >

 

He pauses, trying to listen for anything their attackers might be saying. He overhears a fragment of shouted orders, focuses in on it as he keeps walking towards the voices.

 

<... _ spread out, find the other one…> _

 

Fuck. He’s not doing a really good job of distracting them. 

 

< _ WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? I’M RIGHT HERE!> _

 

This is a surefire way to get shot. This is quite possibly the worst decision he’s ever made. He tries to stop himself from walking, but can’t.

 

The talking stops and he freezes where he stands. There’s a sudden flash of light, one that makes his arms ache as his instincts take over and he blocks again. 

 

Dread crawls up inside of him, like the taste of bile in the back of his throat. This can’t be happening again, he can’t do this again. The burns are just starting to heal.

 

He keeps his eyes shut tight as he waits for the heat to follow. He recoils, stumbling backwards until his back brushes up against the truck. The only relief he can find is in ragged, gasping breaths. His legs give out and he falls to his knees, nails digging into the dirt without gaining any traction.

 

In front of him is a sharp swathe of light, probably a floodlight. Star’s the only one with an advantage of night vision, everyone else needs to mitigate for that. On the other side of the floodlight, he can hear people laughing.

 

“Fuck you,” he spits at the dirt, not loud enough for anyone to hear, “That was a totally justified reaction.”

 

The laughter’s cut short when someone barks out, < _ Shit, found the other one!> _

 

A few shots go off and Rictor turns towards the commotion, trying to blink away the afterimages burnt into his vision. There are two spots of light in his line of sight, but he can’t tell if they’re Star’s eyes or not. Amid the sound of gunfire, there’s a wet scream cut short in a way that seems to suggest it’s Star. 

 

His eyes adjust just in time to see Star drop.

 

“ _ STAR!”  _

 

He can’t stop himself from crying out.

 

Rictor’s entire body is already shaking and it’s so easy to just let everything slip away, let all of his power come pouring out of him. He can feel a fault a couple miles away and calls out to it until the ground starts to move. There’s no point in holding back, Star was right when he said someone will probably have to die.

 

There’s someone behind him, he can feel the vibrations of each step.

 

Rictor turns just in time to get kicked directly in the nose.

 

His head snaps back. Blood pours down into the back of his throat. He’s shunted directly out of the mindset he needs to be in, all his power folding back in on himself in a way that makes his heart drop with familiarity. 

 

Rictor tries to move before--

 

Falling backwards.

 

Teeth clicking.

 

Can’t breathe.

 

Can’t see.

 

Can’t think.

 

His legs kick out limply. His arms are shaking too badly to try to push himself onto his side; the most he can do is claw helplessly at the dirt as he tries to brace himself and not slam his head against the ground too hard.

 

The blood from his broken nose keeps pouring down into his mouth. It bubbles up, coating the back of his throat each time he tries to inhale, ragged and desperate.

 

< _ The fuck did you do to him?> _

 

_ <Nothing, he just started shaking like that.> _

 

_ <Fuck, I forgot the kid has seizures.> _

 

The voice sounds familiar but Rictor’s in no state to try to place it, the most he can tell is that two people are standing behind him.

 

Someone kicks him in the back, rolling him over onto his side. 

 

He coughs, splattering blood on the ground until he can finally breathe. Rictor’s not in control of his body enough to sit up, his arms are still shaking relentlessly, but at least his eyes aren’t rolled back into his head anymore and he isn’t drowning in his own blood. 

 

Rictor’s angled in the right way to see a man clad in black dragging Star into the patch of light by his hair. One hand’s curled tight around his sword, the other claws at the man’s arm. Star’s growling, occasionally snarling out something that sounds like it might be in Cadre.

 

_ This can’t be happening,  _ Rictor thinks numbly,  _ this has to be a nightmare. _

 

The man dragging Star pulls him up until he’s kneeling before tilting Star’s head back to look up at him. Star growls again, shaking the man’s hand off of him quick enough to bite the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. The man pulls back with a cry; Star smiles up at him, teeth stained red.

 

< _ That one fuckin’ bit me!> _

 

The one that sounds familiar laughs, < _ Must be the one that sliced n’ diced our men. Julio never had the guts for violence.> _

 

The first man crouches down in front of Star. He grabs the back of Star’s head, smashing it hard against the ground before pulling him back up. Star smiles again, teeth gleaming amid the red splatter framing the lower half of his face.

 

< _ Won’t stop smiling either. It’s fuckin’ creepy.> _

 

Rictor finally gathers himself enough to brace against his arms as he sits up. He’s still shaking; he could try to let the energy out but the idea of it getting turned back on him again is too terrifying for him to risk it. The only thing keeping him from panicking is the fact that his head is finally clear enough to feel his connection at the back of his mind.

 

One of the people standing behind him finally walks into his line of sight, pistol hanging casually from his hand. He paces, gesturing with the gun as he talks.

 

< _ Now this is nothing personal, Julio, but you and your weird little friend are really getting on my nerves.> _

 

Matching a face to the voice helps, even if he looks way older. It doesn’t help that Rictor’s brain feels completely fried.

 

< _ Gabe,> _ Rictor mutters.

 

He laughs, throwing his head back, < _ I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me, high and mighty Julio, off in America ‘cos he’s too good for the rest of us.> _

 

_ <So you’re a hitman now?> _ Rictor spits another clot of blood into the dirt.

 

_ <Yeah, and I’m gonna be running this show when I bring back proof that you’re dead. You did a good job, pruning the branches a bit, showing us our weak spots. Guess you were good for something after all.> _

 

Gabe turns back to his men. There are only three left; Gabe, the other one behind him, and the man standing by Star. He did a good job, taking out four of them before whatever happened.

 

Gabe considers for a second, turning his pistol over in his hand, < _ I want them both standing.> _

 

The man closest to Star looks uncertain, but he steps behind Star. Grabbing his shoulders, the man pulls Star to his feet. He sways precariously for a few seconds, forcing the man to steady him. 

 

Star looks directly at Rictor, tilting his head just slightly towards the side holding his sword. 

 

He moves quickly, a blur of red and silver. 

 

When he stills, his remaining sword is in his stomach. 

 

The man behind him sucks in a shallow, wet breath, fingers twitching at his side.

 

Star wraps his hand around the hilt of the sword and pulls it out. The man clutches at his stomach, stumbling a few feet before Star whips around. 

 

He thrusts the sword up through the soft flesh under the man’s chin. There’s enough force behind the blow that it cleaves cleanly through the top of his skull. Star pulls it out, letting the body drop to the ground.

 

< _ Pretty boy’s fuckin’ insane,> _ Gabe laughs again, pointing his pistol at Rictor’s head, < _ Where’d you find him? I might have to keep him alive, could be useful. That’s the kind of crazy we need.> _

 

< _ He shouldn’t be able to stand,> _ the voice comes from behind Rictor, < _ He was shot in the knee twice.> _

 

Rictor turns back towards Gabe; there’s the same hollowness in his eyes as the barrel of the gun. He isn’t as scared as he could be, this almost feels familiar by now.

 

He might die tonight, but he still has a chance to be a good distraction.

 

< _ You don’t have to do this.> _

 

He just has to keep Gabe talking.

 

< _ But, I do. You’re bad for business. We’re losing money ‘cos people think we’re too risky.> _

 

_ <We’ll leave, I promise. We’ll never come back.> _

 

Behind Gabe, Star is stumbling, limping carefully in a way Rictor hopes is as rehearsed as it looks.

 

_ <What kind of a message would that send? It’s nothing personal, I promise.> _

 

The humming starts quietly, building up until it’s loud enough to make Gabe turn back. What little part of Star’s hair isn’t matted with blood appears to be standing up with static electricity. Rictor can feel it crackling in the air. 

 

< _ The fuck are you--> _

 

Star buries the edge of his blade in Gabe’s skull, pulling it out before his body has a chance to fall. 

 

The man behind Rictor kicks him in the back, knocking the wind out of him. He’s still standing on his back when Rictor hears him click his gun’s safety off.

 

Star’s hum builds into something of a growl which builds into a scream. Rictor grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut until he hears the thud of a body hitting the ground.

 

He sits up, desperately sucking in air. 

 

“Dude,” he rasps out, “You just murdered my cousin.”

 

Star cocks his head to the side, almost questioning, then crumples to the ground.

 

Rictor stays kneeling until he can finally breathe again. If everything hurts right now, it’s just gonna hurt worse tomorrow. His hands are still shaking, more from the energy leaching out than from the aftershocks of his power getting turned in on himself. 

 

From what he can understand, he’s constantly absorbing energy, even when it’s not in use, which ends up slowly leaking out in the form of terribly shaky hands. But, since it’s hard to get energy out when you don’t even know it’s inside of you, there was a year leading up to the first  _ real  _ manifestation of his mutation where he had what everyone thought were seizures. It took years for him to finally figure out that it was just his power doubling back in on itself.

 

He stands up, carefully, before staggering over to Star. He doesn’t move at the sound of Rictor’s footsteps, which must mean he’s fucking unconscious. Rictor carefully rolls Star over. He crouches down to loop his arms under Star’s, then slowly drags him back towards the truck. 

 

On a good day, he could pick up Star, but this has been an extremely shitty day. Night. Whatever.

 

Getting Star up into the bed of the truck is tricky. Rictor lifts him up as much as he can and drags Star the rest of the way onto the futon. Then, he curls up across from Star, unable to keep his eyes open.  
  


* * *

 

 

Rictor wakes up feeling absolutely terrible, which is about what he expected. In addition to the broken nose, all of his joints ache and the taste of blood and bile coats the back of his throat.

 

He grabs one of the gallons of water they have in the back of the truck; it’s tepid, bordering on warm but his throat is so dry and his head hurts so much that he doesn’t even care. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, setting the jug down.

 

“Star?”

 

He doesn’t respond; Rictor leans down, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Star? You okay?”

 

Star snarls, whole body tensed. He catches Rictor’s wrist, digging nails into the soft flesh of his inner arm hard enough to draw blood.

 

“Hey, hey, it’s just me. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

 

Star lets go, still looking at Rictor warily, like he’s sizing him up. He has to be starving, his metabolism goes crazy when he’s healing.

 

“I’ll be right back,” Rictor whispers before jumping down.

 

He only grabs the cereal; trying to get Star to eat something he doesn’t want to when he’s like this sounds way harder than it’s worth. When he climbs back into the bed of the truck, Star’s sitting up. He’s still covered in blood, dried enough that it cracks when he moves. Both his eyes are black, probably from being slammed face first into the ground that hard, and Rictor can see blood in his milky white eye. Star traces his fingers across his nose, repeating the action a few times.

 

“Yeah, it’s broken. Mine is too.”

 

Star pinches part of the bridge of his nose between two fingers, snapping it back into place with a crunch that makes Rictor pale. A stream of fresh blood trickles down to his lip; Star absentmindedly licks it away.

 

“Uh, here,” Rictor opens the box, pulling out the bag of cereal to hand to Star.

 

Star pulls it away. He sets the bag in his lap, ripping it open before curling around it almost protectively.

 

“Dude, don’t worry. I don’t even like that kind.”

 

Star doesn’t respond, just works at shoving handfuls of dry cereal into his mouth.

 

“You do recognize me, right?”

 

It feels like a stupid thing to ask, but weirder things have happened and it really looks like Star’s stuck in some kind of battle mode. Rictor’s never seen him like this, even back when they first met. Star pauses, nodding slowly before going back to eating like he might never be fed again.

 

“Good,” Rictor laughs awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I was kinda worried there for a bit.”

 

He lapses into silence, waiting until Star’s eaten basically the entire bag of cereal.

 

“Let’s go before someone drives by and notices, uh,” Rictor looks out at the carnage for the first time in the light of day, “ _ This. _ ”

 

There are arcs of blood all over the baked clay, a cluster of four bodies and another of three. One of Star’s swords is with each cluster. Star slides down off the bed of the truck, body angled towards the closest sword. He makes it halfway through a step, then crumples to the ground. 

 

Star lets out a low whining sound; Rictor rushes over to help him up.

 

“One of them said you got shot in the knee twice. I don’t know how long it takes for your tendons to get fixed, but I think you maxed out your healing factor last night. I’ve never seen you with bruises.”

 

He tries not to think about the fact that if Star’s this bruised, there’s probably internal damage. He’s still unsteady himself, but he’s steadier than Star, who’s light enough to be able to lean on him. Star climbs into the passenger seat on his own.

 

“I’ll get your swords, I’ll be right back.”

 

Star nods again. Rictor goes for the one closest first. Apparently, Star’s a good marksman because it’s wedged right in the man’s heart area, hard enough that Rictor has to brace his foot against the man’s chest. He pulls it out, biting back nausea with the squelching noise it makes. Star’s right about it being hard for anyone else to wield these, it’s buzzing in his hand in a way that feels similar to his power but completely and entirely different.

 

He passes the first sword off to Star, who cradles it to his chest very carefully. Then, he slowly works his way over to the other one. He’s not sure he has it in him to run right now and it’s not too far away. It’s abandoned on the ground by a pool of smeared blood that can only be from Star. 

 

Rictor hands Star his other sword before starting the engine. He makes a wide arc around all of the bodies before getting back on the road. They both look terrible and Rictor’s in the mood to waste the rest of their money on getting some motel owner to forget they were ever there in the name of a warm shower and an actual bed.

 

Star looks over at him, still clutching his swords, “Safe, yes?”

 

“Yeah, I think we’re safe. What you did, well, it sends a message,” Rictor grimaces; it was a gruesome scene but that seems to be the only language his family understands.

 

Star’s concern melts into annoyance, “Three times now, relatives have shot me, yes?”

 

“For the last time, just cause we’re related, it doesn’t mean I like what they do,” Rictor groans, “They  _ also  _ tried to kill me, twice. It’s not just you they hate. Are you okay? You look pretty fucked up.”

 

“Broken,” Star says, pausing before adding, “Healing.”

 

“ _ Okay _ , that’s good. Any idea on the time frame we’re talking about?”

 

“Uncertain. Unused to bullets.”

 

“I’ll find another motel, we can take some time for you to heal.”

 

“Apologies,” Star wrinkles his nose, “Talking, not easy now.”

 

“It’s fine,” Rictor laughs, “I spent a month trying to figure out the meaning of all the noises you make, this is easy.”

 

He’s not expecting much conversation, but he keeps looking over at Star to make sure he’s still conscious. Sometime between glances, Star propped his leg up on the dashboard; Rictor does a double-take. Star’s fingers are definitely inside the hole in his leg.

 

“What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing?”

 

“Connected again,” Star offers, “Can move.”

 

“There’s no way sticking your fingers into it is a good idea, dude.”

 

“Feeling connections,” Star shrugs, “Also shards. Hollow bones, break easy, fix harder.”

 

He punctuates the sentiment by pulling one of the shards he’s talking about from the wound. He holds it between his fingers, examining it before leaning forward in a way that looks an awful lot like he’s planning on setting it down on the dashboard.

 

Rictor shoots him a look, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

 

Star rolls his eyes, curling the shard in the palm of his hand. 

 

* * *

 

The aftermath of last night is just finally starting to catch up to him as he finally pulls into the closest town he could find. It turns out that the ache from this morning was just the beginning. Rictor’s definitely concussed again, but he hasn’t blacked out yet, so things are pretty good as far as they go. He’s had a concerning amount of concussions in his short, terrible life, but he isn’t really playing the long game so he’ll hopefully skip out on any of the lasting effects. 

 

Rictor parks in front of the nicest motel he can find. They’re alive and that deserves the kind of celebration that can only be achieved in the form of the best roadside motel room money can buy. 

 

“Stay in the truck,” Rictor glares at Star, “You look fucking terrifying.”

 

He really does look terrifying, he’s still coated in blood and acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Just the crusted blood from his nosebleed is enough to set Rictor’s teeth on edge; he wants nothing more than to scrub away the feeling. 

 

Rictor walks into the front office, taking a cue from Star as he smiles in a way that he hopes says ‘ _ don’t fucking test me _ ’. The fact that his face is smeared in both dirt and blood only adds to the effect.

 

< _ Hi. I need a room _ ,> Rictor sets down a wad of bills on the counter, < _ Please don’t ask about the blood _ .>

 

He comes back to the truck five minutes later, room keys in hand. Somehow, Star manages to stand despite the fact the hole in his leg makes Rictor ache in sympathy. Star limps slightly, dragging the tips of his swords across the sidewalk behind him. The noise they make is terrible, screeching steel on concrete. It has to be drawing attention to the two of them, but Rictor knows there’s no way he’s getting Star to let go of his swords. 

 

Rictor grabs their bags, halfway sprinting to catch up to Star. Even after getting shot in the knee, he’s still the faster of the two of them. Rictor intercepts in time, steering Star towards their room. He unlocks the door; after stepping into the room, Star lets the swords clatter at his side.

 

Swaying slightly on his feet, Star looks exhausted. Rictor’s almost ready to let him sleep, there’s just the slight issue that if he doesn’t get Star cleaned up  _ right now _ , he’s going to absolutely lose it.

 

“You can’t sleep yet.”

 

Star makes that low whining noise again, hands curling to fists, and Rictor briefly wonders if he’s going to get punched.

 

“You’re covered in blood, I’m not letting you sleep like that, dude. What did you even  _ do?  _ That’s a ridiculous amount of blood.”

 

Star tilts his head, making a slashing motion across his stomach with both arms.

 

“Holy fuck,” Rictor whispers.

 

After collecting himself and shaking away the mental image of Star cutting someone in half, Rictor nudges him towards the bathroom. He grabs clean clothes, before going back to Star, who’s leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. Star looks up at the sound of Rictor’s movements, eyes still looking wild and wary.

 

“I’m gonna get all this blood off, no matter how long it takes,” Rictor warns him.

 

“Just blood,” Star mutters, “Want to  _ sleep. _ ”

 

“You can sleep afterwards,” Rictor lets his voice soften, “You’ll feel better if you’re clean.”

 

“Feeling  _ fine.” _

 

“That’s a lie.” 

 

Rictor reaches out, hand falling just short of brushing against Star’s cheek. He cares about Star a hell of a lot, but not quite enough to rub against someone else’s blood in the process of trying to touch Star. The action is a promise, one he’ll keep once Star’s cleaned off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ray on tumblr drew some art for this chapter!! go check it out [here](https://rayandhisart.tumblr.com/post/176336899354/julio-richter-getting-kicked-in-the-face-because)
> 
> and i also have a thing that's gonna go up sometime later this week that's a shatterstar viewpoint fic i've been working on for a while 
> 
> it could be a standalone or could be a prequel for this fic but i really wanted to try getting in 90s shatterstar's head and it just kinda. got out of control.
> 
> EDIT: the prequel/standalone fic is up! [desolate and ready to kill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14774867)


	9. in which ric almost comes to a realization and making boundaries is hard

First, he tries to undo Star’s braids. He makes it as far as brushing his fingers against one before recoiling with the realization that it’s completely  _ stiff.  _ In the meantime, Star peels off his shirt; it’s another one Rictor liked, but it’s not like you could tell underneath all the blood. Rictor starts the water, leaving Star to strip off his pants.

 

Objectively, he knows how Star’s healing factor works. It goes inside out in order of priority. Blood vessel and organs, then bones and muscles, then fatty tissue and skin. That doesn’t mean the wound doesn’t have him transfixed right now. It’s not bleeding at all, it’s just  _ open.  _ Rictor’s pretty sure he can the tissue moving if he focuses hard enough, which is more than a little bit terrifying. 

 

Star climbs into the shower, bracing both hands against the wall as he just stands under the water without moving. This is obviously going to be harder than he expected and Rictor’s quietly thankful that this is one of those combination bathtub and showers. He strips down, focusing on the fact that he desperately wants to be clean as well. Then, he also climbs into the shower.

 

As it turns out, being naked in the same cramped shower as your best friend who you occasionally kiss is a hell of a lot less intimidating when you're both exhausted and covered in blood.

 

“It's still just me, don't freak out because I'm behind you.”

 

Star turns to face him, cheeks already stained with little tracks of red from the rehydrated blood. Rictor wipes his face clean with a washcloth as best he can. It's awkward with Star’s height. Both Star’s eyes are still black, his lip is split, and there's a gash across the bridge of his nose. He doesn't stay clean for long; reddish water from his hair coats his face all over again.

 

Rictor tries to undo Star’s braids again. He's still a little bit disgusted but now that they're wet they're not literally stiff anymore. He manages to pull the strands apart, raking his fingers through Star’s hair until there aren't any clots left. The water pooling at their feet is slowly becoming more and more red.

 

“You have to wash your own hair, you're too tall for me to do it. Plus, you're taking up all the water.”

 

Star slides past him silently, letting Rictor take his place under the water. The new, raw ache all over his body is almost enough to forget about the burns, right up until he sticks his arms under the hot water. He winces. After adjusting, he tries to rinse out the washcloth as best he can before wiping at the blood under his nose.

 

Star uses the whole tiny bottle of shampoo without even covering the entirety of his hair. Rictor works as much of the suds down as he can, it bubbles up red. Rictor swaps places again, working his fingers through Star’s hair to help rinse it out. Most of the time, it looks like Star’s hair defies gravity, but now it covers him like a blanket, reaching down to his waist. Rictor pushes Star’s hair back behind his shoulders. 

 

Star lurches forward; Rictor catches him, hands against Star’s sides. He sucks in a sharp breath, rumbling noise caught in his throat. Rictor pulls back his hand when he realizes it's pressed against an angry bruise.

 

“Broken rib,” Star hisses.

 

“Next time tell me before I have to grab you, okay?”

 

Pressing against him, Star buries his face in Rictor’s shoulder. Under any other circumstances, Rictor would be freaking the fuck out about the fact that not only are they pressed so close together but they’re also both naked. Today, however, he’s too busy focusing on the fact that Star seems like he might collapse at any moment.

 

“Don’t fall asleep,” he aimlessly rubs Star’s back, fingers pushing apart the hair plastered to his skin.

 

Star hums against his neck; Rictor reaches back enough to shut the water off. Then, Star steps out, grabbing one of the towels. He dries off methodically before stumbling from the room. Rictor gets out, wiping himself down with the other towel, then pulls on the clothes he really brought for Star. 

 

When he steps into the room, he’s relieved to see that Star at least had the courtesy to not continue to walk around naked because that’s definitely something Rictor can’t deal with tonight. He’s still shirtless, wearing only underwear, which might be equally bad on any other day. Eyes closed gently, he pulls his hair back, working it into one loose braid. 

 

“I’m gonna wrap your leg before you sleep.”

 

Star opens his eyes, glaring at him.

 

“I know it’s not bleeding but I’m not gonna sleep in the same bed as you if there’s a gaping hole in your leg.”

 

They still have some bandages left over from his arms; he wraps Star’s leg just enough that the hole isn’t visible. Star crawls up into the bed, curling in on himself. Rictor claims the space behind him, wrapping his arms around Star’s bare chest to pull him in closer. Hopefully he’s avoiding the broken rib.

 

Star’s head is tucked under his chin; it’s something that wouldn’t work nearly as well if he slept like a normal person instead of curling in on himself as tight as he can. Usually, Star’s skin is cold to the touch, but he’s much hotter now with how hard his healing factor is working. Star’s warm and solid in Rictor’s arms, and the realization suddenly strikes him that he’s spooning someone for the first time in his life.

 

* * *

 

Rictor’s  _ exhausted _ . He  _ knows  _ he’s exhausted. But somehow, he just can’t make the jump between being awake and being asleep. Groaning silently is a lot harder than it sounds but he doesn’t want to wake Star up, so he tries to do it. 

 

He spends what feels like ages staring at an undefined point in the darkness while listening to Star breathing. Which sounds creepy. It might be creepy. It probably is. Okay, it definitely is. 

 

Rictor’s never been good at dealing with  _ silence _ . It’s hard to be alone with your thoughts when your thoughts really want you dead. It’s pathetic and depressing to think that almost dying twice hasn’t actually changed anything, but he can’t outrun that stupid nagging voice that rarely shuts the fuck up. 

 

“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispers, just to fill the space with anything, “You never let yourself get that hurt. I wanted to help, but I was too fucking useless. I tried, but I fucked it up and just made myself useless for the whole fight.”

 

Rictor sighs, this is exactly the kind of thing he was trying to avoid by talking. Which means it’s time for a subject change before it becomes the only thing he can think about.

 

“Is that what you were always like before? I hope not. It makes you look scary, but it’s just sad. I mean, it probably doesn’t make most people feel sad when they see you like that,” Rictor’s really hoping Star isn’t awake for any of this, but he’s so used to clarifying stuff about emotions that he does it anyway, “But it was like everything that makes you  _ you  _ was stripped away. And that’s  _ sad.  _ Because you’re weird, but you’re also cool and basically the only person I feel comfortable around.”

 

He knows he’s rambling, but he really can’t stop now, “And I like being around you. I like  _ this,  _ not all of it, it’d be so much better if we could just do normal things. But I like going out for dinner with you and arguing about movies with you and holding you and, fuck, I even like kissing you. I guess I just like you.”

 

That all sounded stupid. Stupid and mushy. But somehow he doesn’t regret saying it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to Star very carefully lifting his arm up so he can slide out of the bed. Rictor keeps his eyes shut; there’s no way he can fall back to sleep but maybe he can just lie in bed for a couple of hours. Star moving around the room is a nice background noise, quiet and familiar against the ever changing motel sounds.

 

What’s really unexpected is Star crawling back into the bed, lifting Rictor’s arm again to drape it over himself before curling up. 

 

He wraps his arms around Star, squeezing, “Caught you.”

 

“I tried to be careful.”

 

“I know.”

 

Star twists around until he’s facing Rictor. There’s still blood in his milky white eye but the skin around his eyes isn’t bruised anymore. The gash across the bridge of his nose can now be reclassified as a cut, not quite healed but not nearly as gaping as before. That’s a good sign, the power’s going towards things other than the hole in Star’s leg.

 

“You okay?”

 

He gets an uncertain noise in response, one that dips up and down in tone.

 

“What was done to you?” Star works his fingers through Rictor’s hair, “I saw you, what happened.”

 

There’s no question as to what Star means and Rictor’s face flushes. This is the worst possible thing to tell Star, who already thinks Rictor holds him back. He might be okay with that for now, but there’s no telling how long that’ll hold out.

 

“Nobody did that,” Rictor sighs, trying to look away from Star, which is hard when he’s only a few inches away, “Well. I guess I did that. The concussion and then I got kicked in the face and I just fucked everything up.”

 

“My power is a weakness. Each time I use it, it will exhaust me. This is the first time I have seen your power hurt you. It is safer.”

 

“Yeah, but you’ve got other stuff going for you. Like the swords. And the kickass gladiator skills.”

 

“You did not have to fight,” Star rests his palm against Rictor’s cheek, “That is good.  _ With you. _ ”

 

Rictor raises an eyebrow, “What does  _ that  _ mean?”

 

“Lack of experience is tedious with anyone else. You are the exception.”

 

“ _ Wow.  _ I feel  _ so _ special.”

 

“It  _ is  _ special,” Star frowns, “Were you someone else, I would have left you. I have no stake in your blood quarrel other than  _ you _ .”

 

“Well, I’m glad to know I’m important enough to not let die.”

 

Star breaks away, sitting up, “You are  _ misunderstanding. _ ”

 

“Then try to explain it better,” Rictor shrugs, “Cos right now it doesn’t sound great.”

 

“I do not  _ protect  _ people. Only you. I am unfamiliar with this need, but I am  _ trying. _ ”

 

Rictor sits up, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he sighs, “Okay, that doesn’t mean you can just let people die because you don’t care about them. This is why everyone on X-Force was scared of you, dude.”

 

“I am the seventh produced of my line, I have always been expendable. You are not.”

 

“Nobody’s expendable, dude, not you or anyone else. That’s why you don’t let people die when you can do something to help,” Rictor presses his palms against his eyes, leaning back as he groans, “It’s way too early to try to talk morality and I feel like shit.”

 

“I will  _ try.  _ You are still my priority.”

 

“Well, that’s  _ something, _ ” he touches Star’s shoulder, rubbing small circles with his thumb against Star’s skin.

 

Star accepts the invitation of the touch, climbing up into Rictor’s lap until they’re pressed together, front to front, Star’s legs wrapped around him. Rictor can feel his breath on his back; he traces his fingers along Star’s spine.

 

“What do we do now? I’m fucking tired of people trying to kill me.”

 

“As am I.”

 

Rictor drums his fingers against Star’s shoulder-blades, “Dimension hopping is out of the question so I can’t go help you fuck things up at your home since you helped do that here.”

 

“We could reunite with our team.”

 

“Fuck that,” Rictor laughs, “We could go try to be normal people, go to college, get jobs, get an apartment.”

 

“We could continue travelling,” Star whispers, “There is still much I have not seen.”

 

“We’re almost out of money, plus we should probably leave Mexico for a while.”

 

“We can get more money,” Star almost sounds disappointed, “America also has many places to visit.”

 

Rictor takes a deep breath, “We, uh, we could go on a date?”

 

Star hums against him.

 

“I mean, if we don’t tell anyone it’s a date, then nobody will know. Only we’ll know. It’ll just be a thing. As ourselves. It doesn’t have to mean anything weird or be something to overthink.”

 

“You are the only one who overthinks things,” Star moves back enough to look at him, “I know that I like to be close to you and I like to kiss you. The rest is irrelevant.”

 

“Yeah, and you always oversimplify things,” Rictor laughs, “I guess it’s easier when you can just knock someone out if they’re a dick to you.”

 

“I will go on a date with you, when you are not hurt.”

 

“It wouldn’t be much fun when I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” Rictor agrees.

 

It’s nice to have a set destination instead of just flailing aimlessly in the hopes of getting somewhere. There’s still a question of what comes after, but right now there’s the tangible goal of recuperating enough to go on a date with Star. He might back out by the time he’s not in near constant pain, but that’s a risk he’ll have to take.

 

“How’s your leg?” Rictor asks, trying to keep the conversation afloat.

 

“There is a hole in it,” Star offers unhelpfully.

 

“Yeah, does it hurt? And don't say that nothing hurts, I  _ know  _ you can feel pain.”

 

Star makes a noise that’s the closest thing to an auditory equivalent of a shrug that anyone’s ever managed. 

 

“Is this one of those times you get all zoned out and weird?” Rictor frowns, watching Star’s expression.

 

Star gives a small smile, carefully taking Rictor’s face in his hands, “Do not worry about me.”

 

“Someone has to, dude. Everyone else thinks you're indestructible.”

 

“You are significantly more injured, worry about yourself,” Star leans in, tilting his head slightly.

 

He kisses Rictor almost delicately, not quite hard enough to aggravate the split in his lip. Rictor holds him even tighter, trying to get as close as he can.

 

He leans back, almost breathless, “You're getting good at this, not good enough to distract me, though.”

 

Star gives him a devious look, head tilted slightly as he eyes Rictor carefully, “I am?”

 

He’s definitely fishing for praise, but Rictor nods, “So good. You don’t even try to break my nose when you grab me anymore. Sometimes you even kiss me long enough to enjoy it.”

 

Star frowns, which makes Rictor laugh, “Really, you’re doing great. Especially for someone who literally grew up in a dystopia.”

 

Star dips down, mouthing at Rictor's shoulder like he has something to prove. Which he probably does now, Rictor’s only given half compliments so far.

 

“You're so good, you're weird and you don’t always get things but I like it, I like you,” Rictor rests his hand against the back of Star’s head, “You’re so, so great.”

 

Star bites at the soft skin, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to feel his teeth.

 

“You're totally melting my brain right now, dude,” Rictor mumbles, rubbing circles against Star’s scalp.

 

Star pulls back, smiling at him; Rictor shoves him lightly, “Yeah, okay, you're good at this, you don't have to convince me.”

 

“I am tired of staying in bed.”

 

Rictor rubs at his eyes, “It’s 8 am and you've been shot twice, you can sleep in.”

 

“This  _ is  _ what I consider sleeping in,” Star disentangles from him.

 

He carefully clears the space in front of the bed, tossing their bags up on the bed before setting his swords next to them. Star has a daily yoga routine most new-age suburban mothers would kill to be able to commit to. Rictor slides down to the end of the bed, resting his head on his arms as he watches Star. The bright side to being covered in bruises is that the halfway healed burns are overshadowed by the new ache of getting kicked in the face.

 

“What should we do on our, uh, our date?”

 

Star folds forwards, bracing his forearms against the ground before lifting his feet up to balance, “I am not sure.”

 

“We already go out for dinner,” Rictor sighs, “It should probably be something special. Something different.”

 

“That does seem to be traditional.”

 

“I have no ideas,” Rictor groans, “I’ve never been on a date before. Which sounds stupid, everyone dates when they’re like 15. And now everyone’s good at it because they had all the awkward dates when they were younger.”

 

“This is new to me as well.”

 

“Okay. Well,” Rictor sits up, dangling his legs off the edge of the bed, “I don’t want to do anything too ‘public displays of affection’-y, because I’m not okay with that. At all. Which takes about half of all dates off the table.”

 

“Really,” Star looks towards him, almost half-smiling, “You do not want me to surprise you with a sweeping romantic gesture? How unexpected.”

 

“Do you really think we’d be getting shot at if we were living rom-com lives?” Rictor laughs, not because it’s funny but because it’s true, “I just can’t do that. It’s fucking terrifying to even think about touching you where other people can see.”

 

“And it’s not because I don’t want to be around you, it’s just,  _ fuck _ ,” Rictor presses his hands against his head, like he can just push all of this stupid emotional bullshit and insecurity away, “People look  at you and they see an outsider and I  _ really  _ don’t want them to look at me the same way. Which they will, if you’re holding my hand, or--  Shit, that sounds horrible, now that I’ve said it. And it probably is horrible and selfish because I’m supposed to care about you but all I’ve ever really wanted is to just be  _ normal. _ ”

 

He buries his face in his hands, “It’s okay if you don’t want to go on a date with me anymore. If someone told me that, I’d probably tell them to fuck off.”

 

After a long pause, Star says, “I  _ am _ an outsider.”

 

“God, Star that’s not what I meant, I just--”

 

“I do not understand many things about your world, or your society. It is confusing and infuriating and needlessly complicated,” Star shifts until he’s kneeling in front of Rictor, “But I want to understand you. So I will listen to you. I will do what you ask of me. I will be careful when others can see us.”

 

“This is stupid,” Rictor laughs again, the only joke he can find is himself, “I just overanalyze everything. My stupid fucking brain won’t stop overthinking everything I do and how other people might perceive it and I wish I could be close to you all the time, not just when we’re alone, but I can’t. Fuck, I can’t.”

 

“So, uh,” Rictor rubs at the back of his neck, “What about you? Anything you’ll absolutely freak the fuck out about if we try to do it?”

 

Star leans forward, resting his head against Rictor’s knees as he hums, quiet and contemplative.

 

“I do not have much experience with things outside of combat,” Star admits, shifting just enough to look up at him.

 

“Okay, then I guess we’re figuring it out as we go along. You should still warn me before you freak out, though, that way we can stop whatever it is.”

 

“It is not easy to understand what I feel,” Star whispers, “Between feeling good and bad, there is only static.”

 

“We can work on that. You're a work in progress,” Rictor nudges him away until there’s enough space to drop down next to him on the floor, “Uh, let’s start with something easy. What about right now? What are you feeling  _ right now _ ?”

 

There’s an unspoken understanding that Star might be rightfully pissed at him for basically admitting he doesn’t like the attention Star draws to him, but this seems like something he has to do. Star lets out a low, uncomfortable whine, apparently equally reluctant to be doing this.

 

“I… I am confused. By earth, by you. Every time I feel I understand something, I find more I do not,” Star pulls his braid over his shoulder, undoing it to rake his fingers through his hair, “I  _ want  _ to be with you, but I am unused to wanting, unused to feeling. There is something strange and nameless inside of me. Whenever I try to reach for it, I find myself reaching for you.”

 

“That’s… That’s really sappy, dude,” Rictor laughs, against his better judgement, “Like, so sappy.”

 

Star glares at him for a fraction of a second, before adding, “I still want to go on our date.”

 

“That’s good. I do too.”

 

“We do not have a set plan,” Star adds, sounding more urgent.

 

“That’s okay, dude,” Rictor pushes Star’s hair out of his eyes, “Really, we have time to figure it out.”

 

“How much time?” Star eyes him carefully.

 

“Let’s say a week. If we don’t have a specific day in mind, it’ll probably never happen because I’ll keep putting it off. Plus, the bruises should be mostly gone by then.”

 

Star frowns, “You are terrible at planning.”

 

“I got us this far, didn’t I?” 

 

“It seems that planning a date should be easier than planning a coordinated attack upon your family’s infrastructure.”

 

“It really does, doesn’t it?” Rictor laughs, “But now it’s official, we have seven days to come up with the best ‘first date that doesn’t actually look like a date’ ever. And I’m open to suggestions if you think you can do it better than me, because I’ve got no fucking idea what I’m doing in the dating department.”

 

They’ll probably be out of money by the end of the week, but they can always go crawling back to Cable afterwards until they can get back on their feet. He seems to have a weird fondness for Star; Rictor still isn’t totally comfortable with the idea of being around Cable, but he also doesn’t want to be stranded with no money and no way to get basically any kind of a  _ legal  _ job. 

 

But that’s all  _ after.  _ They can figure that out one step at a time. Maybe Cable will give some wildly unhelpful advice and they can go do the opposite, or they’ll get recruited to another team, or maybe Cable won’t help them at all. It doesn’t matter right now, the only thing that matters is figuring out this date and surviving the next seven days to see it come to fruition.

 

Star stands up, finishing out the rest of his yoga routine in silence before heading for the shower again. Once he figured out that he could shower whenever he wanted for basically any reason, he never looked back. The only problem was when Tabs would get in fights with him over using up all the hot water. 

 

He’s probably going stir-crazy by now, but Rictor can’t really do anything. Just the sunlight from the windows makes his head ache and he definitely looks like he was recently kicked in the face by military grade combat boots. They aren’t on the run anymore, but people tend to look concerned when it looks like you’ve had the shit beaten out of you.

 

This day may be a bust, but they have six more before having to get their shit together and the motel room has a TV.


	10. in which planning a date is really hard and going on a date is even harder

#####  **5 Days Til the Date**

The weird bruises under his eyes from getting kicked in the face have faded enough that they just look like he hasn’t slept in a week, which stands out less. The burns on his forearms aren’t shiny anymore, they look weird and bubbled and don’t match the rest of his skin tone, but they’re probably as close to normal as they’re gonna get. Besides, he has more practice in telling people to fuck off when they get too interested in scars than he’d like to admit.

 

Star’s sorely disappointed with the channels the motel TV gets and there’s only so many pushups someone can do in a day before it gets ridiculous.

 

“Let’s get the pictures developed,” Rictor calls out from the bathroom, “We can get some stamps or whatever and mail ‘em to Tabs.”

 

* * *

 

 

They’re forty minutes into what was supposed to be a twenty minute wait. At least they’re the only ones sitting in the little waiting area.

 

Rictor bounces his leg, checking the clock again as he says, “We could see a movie.”

 

He has a perfect mental image of the two of them sitting at the back of a dark theater. No one would be able to see them, no one would know if he just leaned over and… But Star isn’t the kind of person to accept distractions during movies.

 

“No crowds,” Star shakes his head.

 

“I could teach you to swim, the motel has a pool. It’s a shitty one, but it’s a pool.”

 

“No,” Star wrinkles his nose.

 

“You almost drowned when Tabs threw you in the lake at Xavier’s,” Rictor laughs.

 

“No swimming,” Star repeats.

 

“You _really_ aren’t making this easy.”

 

* * *

 

They make it all the way to the post office before Rictor realizes he has no idea what Tabs’ current address is. Back at the motel, Rictor goes through the pictures. Star really isn’t that bad at photography, the pictures are blurred slightly by the movement of the truck but it seems to almost add to it.

 

The one of the two of them doesn’t look nearly as awkward as he remembers it feeling. A few of Star’s pictures of the desert look almost burnt, the film was probably damaged in the explosion. Afterwards, there are a couple of either sunrises or sunsets, probably from the four days he was unconscious.

 

He’ll have to figure out a way to get some of them to Tabs.

 

* * *

 

#####  **4 Days Til the Date**

“I know I’m already gonna regret asking this,” Rictor sighs, “But do you know how to call Cable?”

 

Star shoots him a questioning look.

 

“I just think he might know where Tabs is and I don’t think Domino has ever actually told anyone how to contact her in her entire life.”

 

* * *

 

What Star types into the payphone is longer than any phone number on earth, but when Rictor takes the handset, he can hear it ringing on the other side.

 

His voice is tinny and thin among the static, but it’s definitely Cable on the other end, “How are you boys doing?”

 

“Don’t talk like a normal person,” Rictor groans, “That’s just fuckin’ weird. And don’t try to read my mind either.”

 

“I see you haven’t changed at all.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can you tell me where Tabs is?”

 

“Not until you give me a status update,” Cable says, drill-sergeant tone creeping into his voice.

 

“Well,” Rictor pauses, thinking, “I didn’t destroy _everything_ but I did fuck shit up.”

 

“Is Shatterstar still with you?”

 

It might just be the static, but Cable almost sounds concerned.

 

Star leans over Rictor’s shoulder, “I was shot. Three times.”

 

“He was _shot_ ,” Cable repeats, a mix between proud and incredulous, “ _Three_ times.”

 

“He’s just whining. I got _blown up_ . And _I_ don’t have a healing factor.”

 

“I am not whining,” Star interjects, “It was unpleasant to be shot.”

 

“I have an address for the rest of the team,” Cable says, “A warehouse in San Francisco. That was their base, last time I checked.”

 

Now that he has an address, the hard part is figuring out what to tell her. He can’t just send the pictures without anything else and he definitely needs a way for her to write back to them. Still, he has time.

 

* * *

 

#####  **3 Days Til the Date**

Star’s leg is healed enough that he wouldn’t let Rictor talk him out of jogging. It should be okay, they aren’t running away anymore, they’re safe. Well, safe-ish. At least this gives him time to try to write something for Tabs.

 

 

 

 

> ~~Hope your month’s been better than mine. Not that that’s hard, I almost died twice.~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~How’s it going in San Francisco, asshole? Couldn’t tell me you were moving?~~
> 
>  
> 
> How’s it going in San Francisco?
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah, found out about the move from Cable. It’s a long story.
> 
>  
> 
> I’m not dead, feel free to yell at me for not telling you sooner but also, fuck you, it’s hard to keep you updated when we’re both moving constantly.
> 
>  
> 
> Star’s not dead either, if you’re wondering. Even if you aren’t wondering.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Also, he finally learned to kiss like a normal fucking person.~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Also, we’ve made out a couple of times.~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Also, he might be my~~
> 
>  
> 
> Also, it turns out he’s physically capable of being kind of normal. He likes chocolate chip pancakes, which is new. And he started rolling his eyes.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~It’s pretty fucking cute.~~
> 
>  
> 
> I let him drive once and he’d give _you_ a run for your money. He’s a force to be reckoned with.
> 
>  
> 
> All in all, it’s been pretty great if you can ignore almost dying twice. Don’t worry, you know I’m pretty hard to kill. Here’s hoping things are better on your end.
> 
>  
> 
> I don’t know where we’re going next, but I’ll let you know when we find out. Things are pretty much done down here in Mexico. Maybe we’ll come visit you.
> 
>  
> 
> I’ll be better about writing, I promise. I’d tell you Star says hi, but he probably doesn’t. You can just pretend he has friends other than me and actually cares about things like saying hi.
> 
>  
> 
> P.S Photographic evidence we aren’t dead.
> 
>  
> 
> P.P.S Star’s pretty good at photography, it’s kind of weird. He took basically all of these.

 

He tucks the picture of him and Star into the envelope, along with some shots of the desert and the highway and the sunsets. He seals the envelope, writing out the warehouse’s address. There’s time to mail it out tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

#####  **2 Days Til The Date**

Rictor spends the entirety of Star’s yoga routine agonizing over whether or not what he’s thinking of doing is a good idea. Eventually, he carefully opens the envelope up again, pulling out the letter. It’s scrawled on several sheets from the pad of paper on the nightstand. There’s more than a couple crossed out pages stuffed into his backpack that no one will _ever_ be allowed to read.

 

On the back of the last page, he very quickly adds another line.

 

> P.P.P.S Don’t fucking tell anyone, I swear to god, but I think I’m dating Shatterstar. Or I will be, by the time you get this.

 

He closes the envelope again, trying not to chicken out of actually sending the letter. It’s a first step, one that feels reasonably safe compared to other possible first steps.

 

Rictor sits on the floor by Star, “Wanna go mail this when you’re done?”

 

Star folds backwards until his hands touch the carpet, looking at Rictor upside down, “Yes, of course.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Rictor leans forward, close enough to awkwardly kiss Star. The angle is weird, but it seemed like too good of an opportunity to pass up. If they’re going to be staying together for a while, he’ll probably have time to figure out a better way to do this.

 

* * *

 

#####  **1 Day Til the Date**

“What about an arcade? Little a,” Rictor adds, “Not that weird guy who kidnapped you.”

 

Star makes a contemplative noise as he dips down to the floor. Rictor’s sitting on his back as he does push ups, which is more boring than it sounds when Star’s been doing this for an hour.

 

“I never got why Tabs liked them so much, there’s too much going on, all the games going off constantly and the neon lights and the music. You’d probably love it.”

 

“Is there an arcade in this town?” Star asks as he dips down again.

 

“I dunno, didn’t look for one.”

 

“We have a time constraint of seven days. If there is not an arcade in town, we would not make that deadline.”

 

“We can change the deadline, dude.”

 

“I do not want to. I want to be certain this will happen.”

 

Rictor runs a hand through his hair, “Okay. You know, you can suggest things, too.”

 

“You asked me. It is your responsibility to decide a date activity. That is the _tradition_.”

 

Rictor snorts, “Since when have we _ever_ been traditional?”

 

“I want to do this _correctly,_ ” Star says.

 

Rictor slides off his back, standing up stiffly, “Fuck it! We’re just gonna do what we always do.”

 

Star almost looks disappointed; Rictor adds, glaring at him, “And you don’t get to complain because you shot down all my ideas and didn’t give any of your own.”

 

“It is your date, you are allowed to plan it,” Star sounds incredibly unconvincing.

 

“If you’re lucky, I might even calm down enough to let you hold my hand under the table, but don’t count on it.”

 

* * *

 

#####  **The Date**

Even though they’re just getting food together in the same way they’ve been doing for ages, it still feels terrifying. Rictor’s pretty sure he should wear something nice, just on principle. Rictor’s also pretty sure he doesn’t actually _have_ anything nice. He compromises, settling on wearing something that doesn’t have any obvious bloodstains, aka a pair of black jeans and one of the few shirts he likes that’s managed to survive Star.

 

On some level, he knows Star can probably do more than just the twin braids he always wears, but that doesn’t stop his mind from going blank when he sees what Star’s done with his hair. It’s weird, but _fancy_. Smaller braids are twisted into bigger ones, loose and looping, all pulled over his shoulder.

 

“You look like an elf,” Rictor mumbles, mentally smacking himself after realizing what he said.

 

That’s a terrible compliment. Especially for someone who still hasn’t made it to fantasy because he’s dead set on working his way through every science fiction movie he can find that isn’t in black and white.

 

“I will assume that is a good thing.”

 

“Yeah, I mean, you look good, well, uh, great,” Rictor rubs at the back of his neck, “People are definitely gonna stare at you.”

 

“People always stare at me.”

 

“More than usual, dude.”

 

“We are leaving tomorrow, it will not matter,” Star says, carefully wrapping his fingers around Rictor’s wrist.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Rictor sighs, “If you don’t mind, I don’t mind. Really. I know I said all that dumb shit but I want this to be good.”

 

“If it is not good, we can always attempt this again,” Star’s fingers brush against Rictor’s cheek, pushing his hair back behind his ear.

 

“We should probably kiss now,” Rictor whispers, “Get it out of our system so we don’t get the idea to do anything stupid where someone can see us.”

 

“I do not believe it works like this.”

 

“It totally does, trust me.”

 

“You are _lying,_ ” Star kisses him once, quick and efficient.

 

“I’m _joking,”_ Rictor repeats the action, draws it out as long as he can, “There’s a difference.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rictor’s hands are shaking so badly he almost drops the menu. It’s stupid, they’ve done this a thousand times before. They go to restaurants all the time. He manages to stumble his way through an order for something he probably won’t even be able to eat, but at least Star will take it and he won’t have to feel bad about not being able to eat.

 

Once the waitress is gone, Star nudges at Rictor’s leg with his foot under the table.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“ _Really_?”

 

Star looks unconvinced; Rictor folds, burying his face in his hands, “Okay, I’m freaking out. But it’s fine.”

 

“Would you prefer to leave?”

 

“No,” Rictor cuts his voice to a whisper, almost conspiratorial, “If I don’t do this now, I’m probably never gonna do it ever.”

 

Star pauses to think before adding, “Perhaps you should talk. You talk to distract yourself and comfort yourself.”

 

If Rictor wasn’t panicking so badly, he’d tell Star to not say shit like that, even if it’s true. Instead, he settles for digging at some of the dirt and/or blood caked under his fingernails.

 

“Uh, well. I hate to say this but we should probably go to Cable after this.”

 

Star nudges him with his foot again.

 

“We’re, uh, broke, and homeless, and he seems to like you,” Rictor adds, “So, uh, maybe he’ll let us crash with him. I can’t get a job because I got kidnapped and the news told everyone I was evil and I didn’t finish high school and you can’t get a job because you don’t legally exist on earth. And we kind of need money to live.”

 

“It is not that hard to get money,” Star offers.

 

“I am _not_ letting you join a fight club or rob a bank, dude.”

 

Star rolls his eyes, “Your banks are secured so _poorly._ It would be an easy task.”

 

“No. No bank robbery. It would be really fucking nice if we could go through life without doing anything dubiously legal ever again.”

 

Rictor stops abruptly, giving an awkward smile as their food is brought out. The last thing they need is someone overhearing something and calling the cops on them. He pushes his food around on his plate, trying to still his hands enough to see if he can actually eat right now.

 

“What do you want to do, after this?” Star asks, voice as close to gentle as he can manage, “After all of this, not immediately after dinner.”

 

“Uh…”

 

Rictor isn’t sure. He doesn’t know what he wants at all. Well, he knows he wants Star, so badly it makes him hate himself even more than usual. But that’s not something he’s ready to admit. Maybe he never will be ready and that might have to be okay.

 

“I want to stay with you,” he settles on, ambiguous enough that it isn’t an admission.

 

“That is a given. What else?”

 

“Well,” Rictor rubs at the back of his neck, evading Star’s gaze, “I always kinda wanted to go to college. I wanted to study geology. It seems stupid ‘cos I can already move the earth, but I still wanted to do it.”

 

“I am uncertain if I can live like you,” Star looks pained, watching him carefully.

 

“That’s okay, I still want you around.”

 

“I do not like leisure,” Star’s hands curl into fists against the table, “I do not like how it feels. I do not like laundromats or grocery stores or waiting in lines. I do not like the mundane.”

 

“I know that,” Rictor nudges Star’s leg with his foot, “We’ll find something for you to do, something you _want_ to do, no matter how long it takes. It’ll be hard at first, but it’ll be good, once we’re used to it.”

 

Star doesn’t look entirely convinced, falling silent as he works at his food. Rictor mirrors the action, finally able to eat at least a little bit. The silence gives him room to work through the logistics.

 

He’s not being realistic, neither of them are. There’s no way Rictor can afford an apartment on his own, which he’d have to because Star’s nowhere near good enough at interacting with people to get a job. There’s no way he can go to college like he wants to, no way either of them can live like normal people.

 

But here they are, talking about moving in together. It feels like it’s moving awfully fast for something he’s only just starting to admit to himself, but they’ve been living together since they left for Mexico, haven’t they?

 

Maybe they could go to San Francisco; it’d be close to Tabs and the rest of the team, even if they don’t end up rejoining. Plus, people might not ask as many questions about the hypothetical living arrangement with Star. He doesn’t like cities, but Star likes how fast paced and energetic they are; it might be a good choice.

 

* * *

 

On the way back to the motel, Rictor decides that it’s now or never. Things are good right now and they might never be this close to good again. He catches Star’s wrist, dragging him along to an alcove between storefronts where the streetlights can’t reach them.

 

“You are, hands down, one of the weirdest fucking things that have ever happened to me,” Rictor whispers, “But also maybe one of the best things and I think I’m just a little bit in love with you. I don’t know what’s gonna happen now, but I’m terrified we won’t be able to do this again.”

 

He bounces up on his toes just enough to kiss Star, as quickly as he can before anxiety gets the best of him.

 

“Let’s get out of here before someone notices.”

 

Star pauses, making Rictor turn back to look at him. The streetlight plays on his face enough to tell he’s smiling.

 

“It was you who could not wait until we were where no one could see us, not me. You _were_ lying.”

 

“No, I wasn't! No one could see us there, it's too dark. Not everyone’s got night vision like you.”

 

Star smiles again, something closer to a smirk this time, “You do not like me being right.”

 

Rictor groans, “I'm _fine_ with you being right, but can we get back to the motel, please? Now I'm freaking out about the fact someone might have seen us.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, they start packing up everything. Over the course of a week, their things kind of spread out across the room; it’s the first time they’ve stayed in one place long enough for it to sort of start to feel like a home. It’s something he could get used to, even if he’d have to finally force Star to buy some clothes instead of accepting pity donations from basically everyone on the team.

 

“Do you think Cable can teleport a truck?” Rictor asks, putting his backpack behind his seat.

 

Star furrows his brows, giving him a completely confused look.

 

“We don’t have enough gas money to get anywhere near San Francisco and I’m not abandoning my truck.”

 

“I suppose we could ask. However, it is referred to as a _body_ slide. Not a _truck_ slide.”

 

“If he can’t, I guess we could sell it,” Rictor groans, “We probably could use the money anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Over the payphone, Cable makes the exact same joke only it’s not anywhere near as endearing, almost bordering on funny, as when Star made it. Which only leaves them with the option of selling the truck.

 

It’s a less than ideal situation but San Francisco probably has halfway decent public transportation. Rictor sells it to a used car lot for less than he would’ve liked, but they don't have time to wait for a better deal. They have to leave before they blow all their money on the motel room.

 

It makes him more than a little bit nervous to be stranded with nothing but their bags. Star calls Cable again on the payphone outside of the dealership, giving him the address before passing the phone to Rictor.

 

“I’m not happy about having to sell my truck. I _liked_ it. I didn’t even get enough to buy a new one.”

 

“You didn’t have to ask me for help,” Cable says, it’s infuriating because he’s right.

 

“Can you just get us somewhere so we can figure out what to do next?”

 

“I _guess,_ ” Cable huffs, leaving Rictor to wonder when exactly he started sounding like such a _dad_ , “Bodyslide by two.”

 

* * *

 

They have to be in one of Cable’s safe houses, there’s no other reason why it would be so sparsely decorated and _metallic._ Standing back against the wall is Cable; it’s physically impossible for him not to look like he’s looming.

 

“How was Mexico?”

 

“It was _fine_ ,” Rictor says, shooting him a dark look, “If you try to read my mind, I _will_ kick you.”

 

“That’s just gonna hurt you more than it’s gonna hurt me,” Cable almost smirks, “You two planning on rejoining X-Force?”

 

“Nope,” Rictor grins, “We’re quitting.”

 

“I’m trying to get a team together for a couple jobs, should be easy, the pay sounds good, but not too good to be true.”

 

“Fuck that,” Rictor grins again.

 

Cable folds his arms, “Shatterstar?”

 

“He’s staying with me. Someone’s gotta teach him to be a person and keep him out of trouble.”

 

“Yes,” Star says, eyes trained on the floor, “I am staying with Julio.”

 

“Alright. There’s a guest bedroom and a couch,” Cable heads for the door, “Tomorrow, I’ll drop you wherever you want to go.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow bodyslide-lag is even worse than jet-lag when you aren’t used to it. It feels like everything inside of him has been scraped clean and replaced with sludge. Rictor’s teetering on the edge of consciousness, finally tipped over by the feeling of someone touching him. He blinks his vision into focus; the room is still dark but Star is very definitely right next to him, inches from his face.

 

“Hey Star,” he mumbles, “What’re you doin’ here?”

 

Star frowns, “I have grown accustomed to sleeping near you.”

 

“Awww, you missed me,” Rictor smiles, eyes closed.

 

Star hums softly, climbing up onto the couch before draping himself over Rictor. It can’t be comfortable, he barely fits on the couch and Star is a solid six inches taller than him.

 

Before settling, Star looks up at him, “Is this something I can do?”

 

“Yeah,” Rictor runs a hand through Star’s hair, carefully pushing it out of his eyes, “I’m too tired to overthink this. Either Cable already knows, which he probably does ‘cos telepaths always pry, or he’ll find out soon enough.”

 

Star makes a noise of affirmation, shifting up until his face is basically buried in Rictor’s hair. He can feel Star’s breath against his cheek, even and steady. Rictor rests his arms against Star’s back, hoping it comes across as protective instead of just weird. Star is soft in his arms, the closest he’s come to not being eternally tense since they’ve met.

 

“Star,” he drums his fingers against Star’s shoulder blade, “ _Star_. I know you’re still awake.”

 

“Yes?” Star whispers, Rictor can feel him speak.

 

“Love you.”

 

“I love you, as well.”

 

There isn’t a qualifier, isn’t any theorizing on whether or not he can love. It’s just an admission, as spur of the moment as his own. It’s so unexpected, something Rictor never thought he’d ever hear from _anyone_ , much less Star. He would’ve been happy with a contented hum or Star’s fingers against his face, but this is more than he can handle. His face burns with a flush; they’re close enough that Star _must_ be able to feel how much Rictor’s blushing, but he doesn’t bring that fact up.

 

Rictor has no fucking idea what they’re going to do next or where they’re going to end up, but this is one hell of a perfect starting point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this is technically the last chapter of the fic proper, chapter 11 is an epilogue so stay tuned til next week :D


	11. epilogue: in which 'berto loses a bet

She lost contact with Ric around when the team split and they went off on their own separate roadtrips. But, like, fuck him, you know? If he doesn’t wanna take the time to figure out how to get in touch, then who cares. 

 

(Not that she isn’t guilty of not trying hard enough to figure out where he is, either, but that’s absolutely not the point.)

 

But she’s still been like, totally on top of checking the mail every day just to make sure she’s the first to know if Ric finally got his shit together and actually bothered to send her a postcard. 

 

(Not that he even knows where she is, and she doesn’t know where he is to tell him that they moved, and being on your own totally sucks because you forget to do things like telling your best friend where you’re going.)

 

Anyway, she’s checking the mail like she always does. It’s the one thing she’s actually on time for instead of fashionably late because she actually kind of cares about Ric even if he’s kind of a dumbass and kind of annoying but that’s probably what happens when you live together for a couple of years. She’s never been too in love with the idea of family, but he’s basically an annoying little brother by  now, even if he’s technically a little bit older.

 

So, she gets the mail. There’s, like, four postcards for Sam from his eight million siblings. Some dumb yacht magazine for ‘Berto. Three different weapons catalogues for Domino. And one crumpled looking envelope with no return address, but it’s addressed to her.

 

It’s super annoying that Ric’s just finally decided to tell her he’s not dead. Well, this is weird and totally out of left field, so maybe it’s a letter telling her that Ric  _ is  _ dead. If he is, she’ll have to crawl her way to the afterlife and kick his ass for letting anything happen to him. She knows a few sorcerers, one of ‘em is bound to owe her a favor.

 

She heads back inside, flopping on the couch with the letter in hand. Everyone else can figure out their own mail, that’s not her job or her problem. She opens the envelope, pulling out the contents. The letter itself is written on like four sheets from those little motel pads, and there’s a couple pictures tucked behind it. 

 

He’s not dead, which means it’s okay to be mad at him for not writing sooner. The letter is basically all about Shatterstar, and she’s not, like, mad or jealous or whatever but it fucking sucks that Ric didn’t tag along with the rest of the team because they were best friends first. 

 

(She could’ve gone to Mexico with them, but she’s way totally over fighting with families, her own one already sucks enough that she just wants to forget all about family.)

 

There’s not even a return address for her to tell Ric to get his ass over here and come talk to her because saying he’ll maybe visit just means he’s gonna forget. The pictures are good, though. She’s definitely gonna put them up on her wall, there isn’t much up on the wall of her new room at the warehouse. 

 

Ric looks totally awkward, like he always does, but he looks good. He looks, like, actually happy. He always looked so weird and washed out in the city, now there’s not even dark circles under his eyes. Shatterstar’s glaring at the camera, but he’s always glaring at everything even when he says he’s not. 

 

Ric’s right, he’s not half bad at taking pictures, even if he only takes pics of boring shit like highways and sunsets. She’s still gonna stick them on her wall because they’re something and Ric thought they were special enough to send.

 

She’s about to fold the letter up and stick it back in the envelope so she can take it to her room when she realizes there’s something on the back of the last page.

 

P.P.P.S Don’t fucking tell anyone, I swear to god, but I think I’m dating Shatterstar. Or I will be, by the time you get this.

 

She laughs, covering her mouth with her hand because she totally doesn’t want anyone asking her why she’s laughing so hard. Then, she puts everything back in the envelope. After dropping it off, she heads for the kitchen. 

 

She knows ‘Berto’s around and the kitchen’s as good a guess as any.

 

Standing in the doorway, she singsongs, “Hey, ‘Berto! Remember that bet we made like centuries ago? When you thought that Ric and Shatterstar were, like, totally already a thing, and I told you there’s no way Ric’s self-aware enough to know that Star’s totally in love with him? Well, guess who owes me five hundred bucks!”

 

“Fuck,” ‘Berto drops his fork, clattering to the lino floor, “ _ Seriously?!” _

 

“Yeah,” she laughs, “But you  _ really  _ can’t tell anyone. I’m a good friend but I also want my five hundred bucks and that’s the only reason I told you.”

 

“He actually didn’t realize that…” ‘Berto leans back against the counter, “Wow, I wasn’t expecting you to actually  _ win _ .” 

 

“You better pay up! I’ve got written proof!”

 

“Fine, fine. I guess I’ll keep my word.”

 

“And you better promise not to tell anyone else, either. ‘Specially since I still want Ric to come visit.”

 

“ _ Okay _ , I promise.”

 

* * *

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this is the end!! thank you all so much for sticking with this fic!!
> 
> as of 6/17/18, this is the longest thing i've ever written, so now i'm gonna go get some ice cream and try to figure out what the fuck to do w/ my life now. 
> 
> it's such a shame that i peaked at the age of almost 19 /s
> 
> anyway, the pics at the end are from my mom's road trip back in the mid 90s which she said were okay to post on the internet. i added them on at the end bc i wanted to and bc it fit the Aesthetic. her road trip was only to arizona and involved no murder at all, unless she's been keeping things from me...


End file.
